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I 



NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY. 



PRES^NT-£D BY 

JU&GE Mim. ISAAC R. Hin, 

WASHINGTON. O. C. 

-fiii ■ I'M "i — { i : i i i " i fi| ii " t r i Vf i t i r i rT i 




OF 



ENGLISH SONGS 

/rnra tjjr .liitrrntli tn tjirxjilinrtrrntli frniiini. 




LOXDOX : 

OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBllAllY 

198, STRAXD. 



-A/ 3 



J r 
^ C 



Gift 
Judgre ana* Mrs. r R. H|tt 
Jyn« 23 1936 



PEEFACE. 



The following collection of the popular and national songs of Eng- 
land is offered to the lovers of this delightful department of 
literature, with the hope that it will be found to present, in a small 
compass, the most celebrated effusions of this kind which the lan- 
guage affords. The ordinary song-books, of which large numbers 
are annually, if not daily issued, at prices varying from one penny 
to a shilling, are for the most part valueless to those who desire to 
know the age in which the songs were written, the names of the 
authors, the circumstances which led to their production, or any fact 
of interest connected with their origin or their influence. They 
contain neither names nor dates, make no attempt at classification, 
and often include effusions which are objectionable to the right- 
minded, and unfit to be placed in the hands of the young. The collec- 
tion now offered to the public aims to supply a deficiency in these 
respects ; and although it has no pretensions to being complete, — for 
fifty volumes would scarcely exhaust a subject so extensive as the 
songs of the English people, — it is hoped that it presents a fair view 
of the progress and present state of English literature in this par- 
ticular branch. The songs have not been uniformly selected for 
their beauty or their excellence. While these claims have not been 
lost sight of, the popularity which they may have at any time enjoyed. 



PREFACE. 

or the influence, direct or indirect, which they may be supposed to 
have exercised upon the popular mind, have been considered legiti- 
mate passports to a place in this volume. Care has been taken to ex- 
clude immoral songs of every kind, and to include all songs unobjec- 
tionable in other respects, which have at any time been eminently 
popular. It is possible that many readers with whom particular 
songs may have become favourites from old association, may look in 
vain in this volume for the lyrics that have been impressed o*i 
their memory by accidental circumstances, but they will possibly 
admit, upon reflection, that these are to a great extent matters of 
individual taste, and that the song which is beautiful to one man, 
because his mother, his sister, his lover, his wife, or his friend 
may have sung it, may be without charms for him who has not 
heard it repeated under similar circumstances. It should also be 
remembered that he who selects, with small space at his disposal, 
from a vast mass of materials, must necessarily omit much, which, 
had he been less restricted for room, he would wfllingly have in- 
cluded. Each reader will therefore make allowances for omissions, 
and remember that the design of the work was to present as full 
and as fair an epitome as space would allow of the songs of England 
during nearly four centuries. When it is remembered that single 
authors, out of the multitude from which quotations have been made, 
have produced five or six times the number of songs contained in 
tliis volume, the impossibility of pleasing all tastes will be seen, 
and the volume will be accepted for what it is offered — namely, as 
a fair sample of the songs of England in all their principal varieties. 



London, April, 1851. 



CONTENTS. 



The Mid-watch . 

Poor Jack . 

Blow high, Blow low . ' 

Tom Bowling 

The Sailor's Consolation 

Heaving of the Lead . 

Trae Coinage 

Lonely Nan . 

Every Bullet has its Billet 

Life's like a Ship . 

The Land, boys, we live in 

The Death of Nelson . 

The Arethusa 

The Origin of Naval Artillery 

The Minute Gun 

Ye Mariners of England 

The Battle of the Baltic 

The Chapter of Admirals 

The Sea . , . . 

The Neglected Sailor; . 



R. B. Sheridan 
Charles Dibdin 



Anonymous 

" Myrtle and Vine ' 
L. J. Arnold . 
Prince Hoare 

Thomas Dihdin 
R. S. Sharpe 
Thomas Campbell 



" Myrtle and Vine' 
Barry Cornwall 
Edward Rushton 



PATEIOTIC AND MILITAEY SOI^'GS. 



Inteoductiox . 

From Merciless Invaders 

God save the King 

The Soldier's Glee 

Come, if you dare 

Rule Britannia 

The Death of the Brave 

The Eoast Beef of Old England 

The British Grenadiers 

The Soldier's Drinldng Song 

The Brare Men of Kent . 

The Soldier's Dream 

Men of England . 

ThePati-iot .... 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 

The snug little Island . 

The Soldier .... 

Upon the Plains of Flanders 



Anonymous 

(Boubtful) 

" Deuteromelia" 

John Dryden . 

James Thomson 

William Collins 

Richard Leveridge 

Anonymous 

" Convivial Songster 

. Thomas Campbell 

. Reginald Heber 
. Charles Wolfe 

Thomas Dibdin 

W. Smyth 

Anonymous 



IXTRODUCTIOX 

The Three x\rchers 
Robin, lend to me thy Bow . 
Oh ! the gallant Fisher's Life 
When a Shooting we do go . 
A Huntin? we will go . 



SPOETIXa SONQS. 



Anonymous 



John Chalkhill 
Anonymous 
Henry Fielding 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Old Towler . 

The high-mettled Eacer 

Tom Moody 

The Boy in Yellow 

The Cricketer 

Far away 

Now Night her dusky Mantle 

Say, what is Wealth 

Eingwood . 

The Skater's song 

Hark ! the hollow Woods resounding 

The tuneful sound of Eobin's Horn 

The Health of Sporting 

Waken Lords and Ladies gay 

Huntsman's Eest 

The Huntsman's Dirge 



Anonymous 

Charles Dibdin 

Anonymous 

" Songs of the Chase " 

Anonymous 

" Songs of the Chase " 

Anonymous 



" Songs of the Chase 

" Sportman's Vocal CaUnet 



Anonymous 



Sir Walter Scott 



Anonymous 



MAD SONaS. 

Introduction 

The Mad-Maid's song Robert Herrich 

The Mad Lover Alexander Browne 

The Mad Shepherdess Anonymous 

Tom a Bedlam, or Mad Tom . . . William Basse 

The Distracted Lover Henry Gary . 

Old Mad Tom * ."The Thrush" 

Crazy Jane M.G. Lewis 

Oh, for my true Love ... . " Myrtle and Vine 

The Distracted Maid „ 

The Mad Girl's Song Thomas Dibdin 

The Maniac G.M. Lewis and H, 

MISCELLANEOUS SON&S. 



Bussell 



Under the Greenwood Tree 

Winter 

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind . 

Youth and Age 

In Praise of Melancholy 

Loss in Delays . 

Panglory's Wooing Song 

The Commendation of Music 

Sweet Day so cool 

To Althea, from Prison 

Hope . 

Man's Mortality . 

Haste thee, Nymph 

May Morning 

Go, Lovely Rose . 

The Fairies' song . 

In Summer-time . 



JF. ShaTcspeare 



. Anonymous 
. Br. William Strode 
Robert Southwell 
. Giles Fletcher . 
, William Strode 
. George Herbert 
. Richard Lovelace . 
. "Hours Recreations in Music 
. Simon Wastell 
. John Milton . 

„ . . 

. Edmund Waller 
. Anonymous . . 
. TomD'Urfey . 



CONTENTS. 

Sir John Parle vcom " The English Dancing Master 

The Fairy Queen . . . . . . " Percy's Helics " 

Away with Grief ...... Hugh Crompton 

The Jovial Beggars " Playforcds Choice Airs 

The Praise of Milk „ 

The Old Man's Wish Dr. Walter Pope . 

Gently stir Dean Sicift 

Dirge in " Cymbeline " .... William Collins 

Sweet May ....... Erasmus Darwin 

The Friar of Orders Grey .... Dr. Percy 

Merrily goes the Mill George Colman 

The MiUer . . . . . . . Charles Highmore . 

The Pretty Parrot AiMns " Vocal Poetry " , 

Where Thames Along the Daisy'd Meads . David Mallett 
There was a Jolly Miller . . . .J. Bickerstaff . 
The Origin of the Patten . . . . " Convivial Songster' 
The Uncommon Old Man .... „ . . 

DulceDomum Anonymous 

Gluggity Glug " Myrtle and Vine ". 



Variety .... 

The Taming of the Wheel . 
The Woodpecker . 
In the Season of the Yetir . 
I am a Friar of Orders Grey 
All's Well .... 
Uprouse ye then, my Merry Men 
World ! Life ! O Time ! 
My Native Land, Good Night 



Myrtle and Vine'' 
' Convivial Songster ' 



. John G. Keefe 
. Thomas Dihdin 
. Joanna Baillie 
. Percy Bysshe Shelley 
. Lord Byron 



Home, Sweet Home Howard Payne 

The Bucket ...... . Anonymous 

Isle of Beauty, fare thee well . . . T. Haynes Bayley 

The Song of a Shirt Thomas Hood 

Dear is my little Native Vale . . . Samuel Rogers 

Melancholy „ 

When shall we three meet again . . . Anonymous 

The Tambourine Song „ 

I've been roaming George So ane 

The Brave Old Oak H.F. Charley 

The Grasp of Friendship's Hand . . . Anonymous 

Tubal Cain Charles Mackay 

The Queen of the May George Darley 



Honest Pride 

The Old Ann Chair . 

The Ivy Green 

The Good Time coming 

The Bud is on the Bough 

Fair Flower ! Fair Flower ! 

The Bugle Song . 



Anonymous 
Eliza Cook 
Charles Dickens 
Charles Mackay 
Francis Bennoch 
W. T. Moncrieff 
Alfred Tennyson 



VI 1 

PAGE 

. 262 
. 267 
. 268 
. 269 
. 271 
. 272 
. 273 
. 274 
. 274 
. 275 
. 279 
. 280 
. 281 
. 282 



. 284 
. 285 
. 286 
^287 
. 288 
. 289 
. 289 
. 290 
. 291 
. 292 
. 292 
. 293 
. 293 
. 294 
. 294 
. 295 
. 298 
. 298 
. 299 
. 299 
. 300 
. 301 
. 302 
. 302 
. 304 
. 305 
. 306 
. 307 
. 308 
. 310 
. 311 
. 311 




SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

A CONSIDERABLE amount of error and misconception exists 
upon the subject of Poetry in general — and of song writing in 
particular. Poetry itself, which M. de Lamartine asserts to be " the 
guardian angel of humanity in every age," is considered by many, 
not otherwise unintelligent people, to be identical with verse — an 
idle art unworthy of an age of practical usefulness ; while song 
writing is held to be the most frivolous department of a frivolous 
pursuit. Even many of a more correct and better educated taste 
scarcely know the difference between a song and any other short 
poem. The multitude who sing feel what a song is — but the 
smaller class who reason and refine are as yet scarcely agreed upon 
the meaning of the term song — unless the vague definition that it 
is " something which may be sung " can be considered as satis- 
factory. The worth of a song in the estimation of such critics as 



a^ 



10 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

these, is as little as can be imagined ; and it has become a pro- 
verb, when a thing has been purchased at a price ridiculously low, 
to say that it has been bought "for a song." On the other hand, 
there are people who somewhat over- rate the value and importance 
of songs, and who repeat the phrase made popular by Fletcher 
of Saltoun, that the song- writer has more influence upon the 
mind of the people than the law-maker. 

Both of these estimates are wrong. A song is neither so small 
nor so great a matter as is represented. The many beautiful com- 
positions in the English language, that may strictly be called songs, 
and which we owe to the genius of some of our most illustrious 
writers, from the age of Shakspeare to our own, are sufficient proofs 
that the depreciation of those who deny all value to this form of 
poetry is unjust and unfounded, while the absence of any great 
number of songs, popular enough to model the life — to sway the 
passions — and to stir the patriotism of the English multitude, proves 
that, as regards our nation at least, Fletcher of Saltoun, and those 
who repeat his opinion, have to a considerable extent over-rated 
their influence. Yet who knows how much of loyalty might have 
remained unexcited if the music of the National Anthem had not 
been so magnificent, and if the air of "Rule Britannia" had not 
been so inspiriting ? The song writer — without the musician — 
is, in fact, but a writer of short poems — and " immortal verse " 
must be married to "immortal music" before it can exercise its 
full influence upon the mind of a people. 

A song and a ballad have points of resemblance and of differ- 
ence. A ballad, which at present seems to signify a song wherein 
a story is told, originally meant a short, or even a long, poem, 
modulated in the recital to serve as a musical accompaniment to 
a dance — from hallare, to dance. A song, strictly, should express 
a sentiment only ; but the distinction has been often disregarded 
by our best writers, and some of the most beautiful compositions 
of this class in the English language partake largely of the 
characteristics of both. But a song is a more difficult and 
excellent composition than a ballad. A song should be like an 
epigram — complete and entire — a perfect chrysolite ; — brilliant 
on every side. It should give voice to one pervading idea, which 
should be illustrated naturally and elegantly. It should contain 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. > 11 

no word that could be omitted without injury to the music or the 
meaning; and should avoid the jar of inharmonious consonants, 
which in the English language are so difficult to sing. Every 
stanza should be the very twin and counterpart of the other, as 
regards the rhythm; and the whole composition, whether sprightly, 
tender, patriotic, convivial, or melancholy, should be short and 
terse, and end with the natural climax of the sentiment. A 
ballad, while it should be as perfect as regards the rhythm, is 
allowed more license, and may extend to any length consistent 
with the interest of the story told in it, or the power of voice in the 
singer. Some writers and critics have confined the legitimate 
topics of song to the expression of amatory, convivial, or patriotic 
seutiment. This, however, is an undue limitation, for not only love 
and patriotism, and the less laudable feelings inspired by the 
Bacchanalian frenzy, but joy, hope, tenderness, gratitude, cheer- 
fulness, melancholy, and even grief, are the proper themes of 
song. Their expression by musical cadences is as natural to men 
in all ages and climates as speech itself. All high emotion is 
rhythmical. Wherever there is life and hope, joy or sorrow, there 
are the materials of songs ; and the youthful, more especially, give 
vent to their feelings in this natural music, as we may suppose 
the birds give vent to theirs, finding in the expression its own re- 
ward. The tender passion in all ages and in all languages has ever 
been the most prolific source of songs. The hope and fear — the 
joy and sorrow — the quarrels and reconciliation — the guilt and 
remorse — and even the hatred of lovers, have all found expres- 
sion in these popular compositions ; and, while there are young 
hearts to feel, and old ones to be interested in that passion, it is 
to be anticipated that songs will continue to be made and to be sung 
in celebration of the triumphs of love. No progress of philosophy 
or refinement will root from the heart that feeling which the 
American philosopher, Emerson, calls the " divine rage and enthu- 
siasm, which seizes on man at one period, and works a revolution 
in his mind and body, unites him to his race, pledges him to the 
domestic and civic relations, carries him with new sympathy into 
Nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, 
adds to his character heroic and sacred attributes, establishes 
marriage, and gives permanence to human society." 



12 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

" All mankind," says the same deep thinker in another por- 
tion of his delightful Essay, " love a lover. Though the celestial 
rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender 
age ; and although we can seldom see after thirty years a 
beauty overpowering all analysis or comparison and putting us 
quite beside ourselves, yet the remembrance of these visions out- 
lasts all other remembrance, and is a wreath of flowers on the 
oldest brows. No man ever forgot the visitation of that power to 
his heart and brain which created all things new — which was the 
dawn in him of music, poetry, and art — which made the face of 
Nature radiant with purple light — the morning and the night 
varied enchantments." 

Love is the fine spirit of song, and in all its Protean shapes 
gives music to expression. 

English literature contains no amatory songs of any merit, 
with the exception of a few which we owe to the genius of those 
unfortunate friends, the Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt, 
a dats anterior to that golden age which produced a Shakspeare. 
Whatever songs of the kind may have been sung by the people 
have perished, or only exist in rude snatches and fragments, which 
Shakspeare himself, and some of his contemporaries, have pre- 
served. The amatory songs, or the songs of the affections, pro- 
duced at that time, or such of them as have been handed down to 
us, are rather the productions of the learning and the fancy of 
scholars, than the simple and passionate effusions of lovers. 
There is an air of elegance about them highly pleasing to the 
refined taste, a finish and a grace, and an epigrammatic bril- 
liancy which never fail to captivate ; but heart is wanting. In 
the age which succeeded that of Shakspeare, the merit of the 
popular love songs became still less, and heart may be said to 
have disappeared from them altogether, or to have been but faintly 
discernible amid a mass of scholarly conceits and learned 
prettinesses. The public taste was vitiated, and at last became 
satisfied with mock sentiment, and pagan allusion. No lover 
considered himself a true devotee at the shrine of beauty without 
appealing to Cupid or to Venus, and interlarding his speech with 
thoughts and expressions — scarcely fitting in a Greek or a 
Roman — but utterly un suited to the realities of passion in a land 



I 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 18 

and among a people that were not heathen. Towards the end of 
the seventeenth century, an attempt to discard the ancient 
mythology was made by the best writers. It succeeded partially, 
but it was only to introduce a new style as objectionable as the old. 
Love played at masquerade, and bedizened itself in the costume 
of a stage shepherd. It was at this time that the loves of all the 
Chloes and Strephons came into fashion. 

The famous song attributed sometimes to Pope, and some- 
times to Swift, but most probably the composition of the former, 
and asserted to be written "by a Lady of Quality," happily 
ridiculed this class of songs, and those which had preceded them : 

"Fluttering spread thy pui-ple pinions, 
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, 
I, a slave in thy dominions, 
Nature must give way to art. 

Mild Arcadians ever blooming, 

Nightly nodding o'er yom- flocks, 

See my weary days consuming 
All beneath yon floweiy rocks. 
* » * * * * 

" Melancholy smooth Meander, 
Swiftly purhng in a round, 
On thy margin lovers wander. 

With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. 

Thus when Philomela drooping. 

Softly seeks her silent mate, 
See the birds of Nino stooping, 

Melody resigns to Fate." 

When English song writing was at its lowest ebb ; when coarse 
and brutal Bacchanalian rhapsodies were sung at the table ; when 
women's charms (her virtues were scarcely mentioned) were either 
portrayed in the silly masquerade of the writers of pastorals, or 
in the more natural, but less respectful, lyricil effusions of the wits 
and men about town, Captain Charles Morris, of the Life Guards, 
gallantly endeavoured to give a better tone to this department of 
literature. To use his own language, "he set his face against 
the lyrical scribblers of the eighteenth century, who, odious to 
relate, allowed not woman her true place in the heart, and placed 



14 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

her, in all their songs of glee and gladness, invariably below the 
bottle. She was held out in terror em to all happiness and joy, and 
to fly from her was the burthen of every song." He, on the contrary, 
wrote "to discipline anew the social bands of convivial life, to 
blend the sympathies of fellow hearts, and wreathe a sweeter and 
gayer garland for the brow of festivity from the divine plants of 
concord, gratitude, friendship, and love." His genius, however, 
was not equal to his good intentions, and of the many hundred 
songs which he wrote, not one is worth remembering, except as a 
slight improvement upon the verses of Pope's " Lady of Quality," 
— that mythological person who is supposed to have been the 
parent of all the love songs of the eighteenth century. 

The return to the simplicity of nature, as the only source of 
poetic beauty, which signalized the revival of English literature at 
the commencement of the present century, had of course an effect 
upon the public taste as regarded songs ; and a song writer appeared 
whose fame eclipsed that of all other competitors. Thomas Moore , 
whose Irish Melodies are Irish by their music, and by their 
nationality of sentiment, is, nevertheless, the best writer of 
English songs whom our literature has produced. He may be 
claimed for England, as well as for the country of his birth ; — and 
the example of heart, united with intellect, of vigour combined 
with elegance, and of philosophy with fancy, which he set to his 
contemporary writers of verse, will long exercise a genial influ- 
ence upon the literature of song. 

While English songs that are written to be read have 
gradually attained the highest beauty, E,nglish songs intended 
to be sung have not reached the same perfection. In this 
respect the fault lies with the musical composers, who seem to 
love the "Lady of Quality " and her smooth " nonsense verses" 
far better than they love poetry, and to fail in adapting to music the 
higher flights of fancy or imagination, and the tenderer bursts of 
natural feeling. Without their aid the song writer cannot win his 
way to the popular heart ; and poets, disgusted with musicians, 
will neglect this fascinating branch of the poetic art, and direct 
the energies of their minds to more elaborate composition. 




% MY SWEET SWEETING. 

From a MS. temp. Henry VIII.i 
Ah my sweet sweeting; 
My little pretty sweeting, 
My sweeting will I love wherever I go ; 

She is so proper and pure, 
Full, stedfast, stable and demure, 

There is none such, you may be sure, 
^' As my sweet sweeting. 

In aU this world, as thinketh me, 
Is none so pleasant to my e'e, 
That I am glad so oft to see. 

As my sweet sweeting. 

1 This is a small oblong paper volume — known to be of this early date by the badges 
on the binding, and the names on the fly leaf. It passed through the hands of Thomas 
Mulliner, Thomas Heywood, and Churchyard the poet. It was in the libraiy of Sir John 
Hawkins, the musical historian, and afterwards in that of J. S. Smith, the author of 
' Musica Antiqua," and is now in the possession of Dr. Rimbault. 



16 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

When I behold my sweeting sweet, 
Her face, her hands, her minion feet, 
They seem to me there is none so mete, 
As my sweet sweeting. 

Above all other praise must I, 
And love my pretty pygsnye,\ 
For none I find so womanly 

As my sweet sweeting. 



THE LOYAL LOVER. 

From the same MS. as the preceding song. 

As I lay sleeping, 
In di-eams fleeting. 
Ever my sweeting 

Is in my mind. 
She is so goodly, 
With looks so lovely, 
That no man tiiily 

Such one can find. 

Her beauty so pure, 
It doth under lure 
My poor heart full sure 

In governance. 
Therefore now will I 
Unto her apply, 
And ever will ciy 

For remembrance. 

Her fair eye piercing. 
My poor heart bleeding. 
And I abiding. 

In hope of mede ; 

1 A term of endearment, used by Chaucer, Skelton, (fcc, probably the origin of the 
modern word pickaninny. It is spelled piggesnie in Tyrwhitt's edition of Chaucer. 
The poet, describing the Carpenter's wife in the Miller's Tale, says, " She was a primsole 
— a piggesnie ;" primsole, signifies a primrose. " The Romans," says Tyrwhitt, " used 
oculua as a term of endeannent, and perhaps piggesnie, in vulgar language, only means 
ocellus; the eyes of that animal being remarkably small."— Note on Chaucer's Cant. 
Tales, V. 3268. Todd {Johnson's Diet, in v. Pigsney) has shown that the word was 
occasionally vjnii&n pigs eie. The derivation, however, seems more likely to be from the 
old Saxon word,, viga, a girl. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 17 

But thus have I long, 
Entuning this song, 
With pains full strong, 

And cannot speed. 

Alas will not she, 
Now show her pity. 
But thus will take me, 

In such disdain; 
Methinketh I was 
Unkind that she is. 
That bindeth me thus. 

In such hard pain. 

Though she me bind. 
Yet shall she not find. 
My poor heart unkind, 

Do what she can ; 
For I wiU her pray, 
While I hve a day. 
Me to take for aye, 

Tor her own man. 



THE SOEEOWS OE TEUE LOYEES' PAETING. 

Sir Thomas Wtatt, bom 1503, died 1554. 

There was never nothing more me pain'd, 

Nor more my pity mov'd. 
As when my sweetheart her complain 'd, 

Yet ever she me loy'd, 

Alas ! the while ! 

With piteous look she said, and sigh'd, 

"Alas! what aileth me? 
To love, and set my wealth so hght, 

On him that loveth not me; 

Alas ! the while ! 

" Was I not well void of all pain, 
When that nothing me griev'd? 

And now with sorrows I must complain, 
And cannot be reliev'd, 

Alas ! the while ! 



18 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

'* My restful nights, and joyful days. 

Since I began to love 
Be take from me; all thing decays 

Yet can I not remove, 

Alas! the while!' 

She wept and wnmg her hands withal, 
The tears fell on my neck: 

She turn'd her face, and let them fall. 
And scarce therewith could speak: 
Alas ! the while ! 

Her pains tormented me so sore 
That comfort I had none, 

But cursed my fortune more and more 
To see her sob and groan, 

Alas! the while! 



THE DECEIVED LOVEE SUETH ONLY FOR LIBERTY. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. 

If chance assign'd. 
Were to my mind, 
By every kind 

Of destiny; 
Yet would I crave 
Nought else to have, 

But (dearest ?) life and liberty. 

Then were I sure, 
I might endui'e 
The displeasure 

Of cruelty ; 
Where now I plain 
Alas ! in vain, 

Lacking my life for liberty. 

Eor without th' one, 
Th' other is gone, 
And there can none 
It remedy ; 



SO^^GS or THE AFFECTIONS. 19 

If th' one be past, 
Th' other doth waste, 

And all for lack of liberty. 

And so I drive, 
As yet alive, 
Although I strive 

With misery ; 
Drawing my bieath. 
Looking for death, 

And loss of life for liberty. 

But thou that still, 
May'st at thy will, 
Turn all this ill 

Adversity ; 
For the repair, 
Of my welfare, 

Grant me but life and liberty. 

And if not so. 
Then let all go 
To wretched woe, 

And let me die; 
For th' one or th' other, 
There is none other ; 

My death, or life with liberty. 



THE LOYER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE 
WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE, 

The Eael of Surrey, bom 1516, died 1547. 

When raging love with extreme pain 

Most crueUy distrains my heart; 
When that my tears, as floods of rain. 

Bear witness of my woful smart ; 
When sighs have wasted so my breath. 
That I lie at the point of death : 



20 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

I call to mind the navy gTeat 

That the Greeks brought to Troy town: 

And how the boisterous winds did beat 
Their ships, and rent their sails adown; 

Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood 

Appeas'd the gods that them withstood. 

And how that in those ten years war 
Full many a bloody deed was done; 

And many a lord that came full far, 
There caught his bane, alas! too soon; 

And many a good knight overrun. 

Before the Greeks had Helen won. 

Then think I thus: " Sith such repair, 
So long time war of valiant men. 

Was all to win a lady fair, 

Shall I not learn to suffer, then? 

And think my life well spent to be 

Serving a worthier wight than she?" 

Therefore I never will repent, 

But pains contented still endure; 

For like as when, rough winter spent. 

The pleasing spring straight draweth in ure ; * 

So after raging storms of care, 

Joyful at length may be my fare. 



GIVE PLACE, YE LOVEKS. 

The Eabl of SuREEr, 
Giv% place, ye lovers, here before 

That spent your boasts and brags in vain; 
My lady's beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well sayen, 
Than doth the sun the candle light. 
Or brightest day the darkest night. 

And thereto hath a troth as just, 

As had Penelope the fair; 
For what she saith, ye may it tnist. 

As it by writing sealed were: 
And virtues hath she many mo' 
Than I with pen have skill to show. 

1 Ure —fortune — destiny; — a word used by Chaucer and other early writers. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. il 

I could rehearse, if that I would, 

The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 

When she had lost the perfect mould, 

The like to whom she could not paint: 

With wringing hands, how she did cry. 

And what she said, I know it aye. 

I know she swore with raging mind, 

Her kingdom only set apart. 
There was no loss hy law of kind 

That could have gone so near her heart; 
And this was chiefly all her pain; 
"She could not make the like again," 

Sith Natui-e thus gaye her the praise, 

To he the chiefest work she wrought, 

In faith, methink, some better ways 

On your behalf might well be sought. 

Than to compare, as ye have done, 

To match the candle with the sun. 

The idea in the third and fouilh stanzas of this song " that Nature lost the perfect 
mould," has been a favourite one with all song-writers and poets : and is found in the 
hterature of all European nations. 






IN AN AEBOUE GKEEN. 

From the morality of "Lusty Juventus," printed in the reign of Edward VI. 

In an arboui' green, asleep where as I lay, 
The birds sang sweet in the middle of the day, 
I dreamed fast of mu-th and play : 
In youth is pleasure. 

Methought I walked still to and fro. 
And from her company I could not go. 
But when I waked it was not so : 
In youth is pleasure. 

Therefore my heart is sorely pight. 
Of her alone to have a sight, 
Which is my joy and heart's dehght : 
In youth is pleasure. 



22 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 




LOVE ME LITTLE, LOYE ME LONG. 

Anonymous. Originally printed in 1569-70, in ballad form, on a broadside 
in black letter. 

Love me little, love me long, 
Is the burden of my song, 
Love that is too hot and strong, 

Bumeth soon to waste : 
Still I would not have thee cold, 
Not too backward nor too bold, 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old, 

Eadeth not in haste. 

Love me little, love me long, 

Is the burden of my song. 

If thou lovest me too much, 

It win not prove as true as touch, 

Love me Httle, more than such. 

For I fear the end : 
I am with little well content, 
And a httle from thee sent. 
Is enough, with true intent, 

To be stedfast fiiend. 
Love me little, love me long, &c. 



Say thou lov'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give. 
Never dreaming to deceive. 

While that life endm'es: 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 23 

Nay, and after death in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth, 
As now when in my May of youth, 
This my love assures. 
Love me little, love me long, &c. 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever, 
Give me that with ti'ue endeavom', 

I win it restore : 
A suit of durance let it he. 
For all weathers, that for me, 
For the land or for the sea, 

Lasting evermore. 
Love me httle, love me long, &c. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
Autumn's tempests on it beat, 
It can never know defeat. 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gaia, 
Such the love I teU thee plain, 
Thou must give or woo in vain ; 
So to thee farewell. 
Love me httle, love me long, &c. 



IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIE. 

From Byrds' " Songs and Sonnets," I088. 

If women could be fair and never fond. 
Or that their beauty might continue stiU 

I would not marvel though they made men bond, 
By service long to pui'chase their good wiQ; 

But when I see row fiail these creatm'es ai-e, 

I laugh that men forget themselves so far. 

To mark what choice they make, and how they change, 
How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still, 

And how, like haggards, wild about they range, 
Scorning after reason to follow will ; 

Who would not shalve such buzzai'ds from the fist. 

And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list ? 



24 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Yet for our sport, we fawn and flatter both, 

To pass the time when nothing else can please, 

And train them on to yield by subtle oath, 

The sweet content that gives such humour ease ; 

And then we say, when we their follies try, 

To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I ! 



I 



MAY NEVER WAS THE MONTH OF LOYE. 

From Morley's " Ballets," 1595. 

May never was the month of love, 

For May is full of flowers ; 
But rather April wet by kind. 

For love is full of showers. 

With soothing words, enthralling souls. 

She claims in servile hands. 
Her eye in silence hath a speech, 

Which eye best understands. 

Her little sweet hath many sonrs, 

Short hap immortal harms, 
Her loving looks are murdering darts, 

Her songs bewitching charms. 

Like winter rose, and summer ice, 

Her joys are still untimely. 
Before her, hope — behind, remorse, 

Fair first, in fine unseemly. 

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, 

Leave ojffyour idle pain, 
Seek other mistress for your mind, 

Love's service is in vain. 



SOKGS OF THE AFFECTIOKS. 



;ar) 




ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT. 

Thomas Lodge, bom 1556, died 1625. 

Love in my bosom like a bee, 

Doth suck his sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with me 

Now with his feet; 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast, 
My kisses are his daily feast. 
And yet he robs me of my rest: 

Ah! wanton, wiU you? 

And if I sleep, then pierceth he 

With pretty slight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee. 

The hve long night; 
Strike I the lute, he tunes the stiing, 
He music plays, if I but sing; 
He lends me every lovely tiling, 
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting: 

Ah! wanton, will you? 



26 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Else I with roses every day, 

Will whip you hence, 
And bind you when you long to play, 

For your offence; 
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin, 
Alas! what hereby shall I win, 

If he gainsay me ! 

What if I beat the wanton boy, 

With many a rod, 
He will repay me with annoy, 

Because a god; 
Then sit thou softly on my knee. 
And let thy bower my bosom be; 
Lurk in my eyes, I Uke of thee, 
Cupid! so thou pity me; 

Spare not, but play thee. 



A CHAEACTER OF LOVE. 

Samuel Danyell, born ]563, died 1619, 

Love is a sickness full of woes. 

All remedies refusing, 
A plant that with most cutting grows, 
Most barren with best using. 

Why so ? 
If we enjoy it, soon it dies, 
If not enjoy'd it sighing cries 
Hey ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting. 
And heav'n has made it of a kind, 
Not well ; — nor full, nor fasting. 

Why so ? 
If we enjoy it, soon it dies. 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Hey ho ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 27 

SIGH NO MORE LADIES. 

William Shakspeare, born 1564, died 1616. 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot in sea, and one on shore, 
To one thing constant never: 
Then sigh not so. 
But let them go. 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe, 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no more 

Of dumps so dull and heavy; 
The fraud of men was ever so. 
Since summer first was leavy: 
Then sigh not so. 
But let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe, 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

From " Much Ado About Nothing," Act ii. scene iii. This song is sung by Balthazar, 
and affirmed by Don Pedro to be " By my troth, a good song." 



HARK! HARK! THE LARK! 

"William Shakspeare. 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings, 

As Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies, 
And winking May-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes, 
'With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise — 

Arise — ai'ise. 

From ('ymbeline — sung by Cloteu's musicians under the windows of Imogen's 
chamber. 



^» SOxXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

TAKE, OH TAKE, THOSE LIPS AWAY! 

William Shakspeare. 

Take, oh take, those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn ! 
And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn ; 
But my kisses bring again, 
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain. 

Hide, oh hide, those hills of snow, 

Which thy frozen bosom bears ! 
On whose tops the pinks that grow 

Are of those that April wears ; 
But first set my poor heart free, 
Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

There is some doubt as to the authorship of this exquisite song. The first stanza is 
quoted m " Measure for Measure."" Both of the stanzas appear in the " Bloody Brother, or 
RoUo, Duive of Normandy," by Beaumont and Fletcher. It does not follow, however, that 
any part of it is Shakspeare's because it is introduced in one of his plays. A note on 
this passage in Knight's edition of Shakspeare's plays says, " The question arises, is this 
song to be attributed to Shakspeare or Fletcher? Malone justly observes that all the 
songs introduced in our author's plays appear to have been his own composition. The 
idea in the line — 

' Seals of love, but sealed in vain,' 

is found in the 142d sonnet. The image is also repeated in ' Venus and Adonis.' Weber, 
the editor of Beaumont and Fletcher, is of opinion that the first stanza was Shakspeare's, 
and that Fletcher added the second. There is no evidence, we apprehend, internal or 
external, by which the question can be settled." 



I 



THE FOLLY OF LOVE. 

From John Dowland's Second Book of Songs, 1600. 

What poor astronomers are they, 
Take women's eyes for stars. 

And set their thoughts in battle 'ray. 
To fight such idle wars; 

When in the end they shall approve, 

'Tis but a jest drawn out of love. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS." 29 

And love itself is but a jest, 

Devised by idle heads, 
To catch young fancies in the nest, 

And lay it in fools' beds; 
That being hatched by beauty's eyes, 
They may be fledged ere they be wise. 

But yet it is a sport to see 

How wit will nm on wheels ; 
While wit cannot persuaded be. 

With that which reason feels — 
That women's eyes and stars are odd, 
And Love is but a feigned god. 

But such as will nin mad with will 

I cannot clear their sight. 
But leave them to their study still. 

To look where is no light; 
Till time too late we make them try, 
They study false astronomy. 

" John Dowland," says a note in tlie Eev. Alexander Dyce's edition of the Poems of 
Shakspeaie, " was a famous lutanist." In a sonnet often attributed to Shabspeare, be- 
cause inserted in his " Passionate Pilgrim," but published by Richard Barnefield, a year 
before ttie " Passionate Pilgrim" was given to the world, occur the hues of 
" Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch 
Upon the lute, doth ravish human sense." 



THEEE IS A GAEDEN IN HEK FACE. 

From " An Houre's Recreation in Musicke." Richard Allison, 1606. 

There is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies grow; 

A heavenly paradise is that place, 

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; 

There cherries grow that none may buy, 

Till cheriy-ripe themselves do cry. 

Those chenies fakly do inclose. 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which when her lovely laughter shows. 

They look like rose-buds fell'd with snow; 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy. 
Till cheriy-ripe themselves do cry. 



30 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still, 
Her brows like bended bows do stand, 

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 

These sacred cherries to come nigh, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

This song is apparently the original which suggested to Herrick the lines entitled 
" Cherry Ripe." Being somewhat altered and adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. 
Charles Horn, the song of " Cherry Ripe" became very popular about the year 1825. 

CHERRY RIPE. 

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry. 
Full and fair ones, come and buy ; 
If so be you ask me where 
They do grow, I answer there, 
Where my Julia's lips do smile 
There's the land, or cheiTy isle. 

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry. 

Full and fair ones, come and buy: 

There plantations fully show 

All the year where cherries grow. 

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, 

Full and fair ones, come and buy. 



SYMPTOMS OF LOVE. 

From " The Muses' Garden," 1610. 

Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow. 

As passion did them move ; 
Once did I hope, straight fear again, 

And then I was in love. 

Once did I waking spend the night, 
And told how many minutes move ; 

Once did I wishing waste the day, 
And then I was in love. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 31 

Once by my carving true love's knot, 

The weeping trees did prove, 
That wounds and tears were both our lots, 

And then I was in love. 

Once did I breathe another's breath, 

And in my mistress move; 
Once was I not mine own at all, 

And then 1 was in love. 

Once wore I bracelets made of hair, 

And collars did approve ; 
Once were my clothes made out of wax, 

And then I was in love. 

Once did I sonnet to my saint, 

My soul in numbers move; 
Once did I tell a thousand lies. 

And then I was in love. 

Once in my breast did dangling hang 

A little turtle dove; 
Once, in a word, I was a fool, 

And then I was in love. 



A DOUBT RESOLVED. 

, R. HuHGEs. *• From the third book of Lawes's Ayres." 

Fain would I love, but that I fear 
I quickly should the willow wear; 
Eain would I marry, but men say. 
When love is tied he will away; 
Then tell me, love, what shall I do, 
To cure these fears, whene'er i woo? 

The fair one she's a mark to all, 
The brown each one doth lovely call, 
The black's a pearl in fair mens eyes, 
The rest wilU stoop at any prize ; 
Then tell me, love, what shall 1 do, 
To cure these fears whene'er I woo? 



32 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Young lover know it is not I, 
That wound with fear or jealousy ; 
Nor do men ever feel those smarts, 
Until they have confined their hearts; 
Then if you'll cure your fears, you shall 
Love neither fair, hlack, brown, hut all. 



DEAEEST! DO NOT YOU DELAY ME. 

From Fletcher's Comedy of the "Spanish Curate," 162'?. 
Dearest! do not you delay me, 

Since thou know'st I must he gonej 
Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, 
, But 'tis wind that must he blown 
From that breath, whose native smell 
Indian odours far excel. 

Oh ! then, speak, thou fairest fair ! 

Kill not him that vows to serve thee; 
But perfume this neighbouring air, 

Else dull silence, sure, will starve me; 
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, 

Which, being restrain 'd, a heart is broken. 



YOU MEANER BEAUTIES. 

Su- Henry Wotton, born 1568, died 1639. 
You meaner beauties of the night 

That poorly satisfy our eyes, 
More by your number, than yoin" light; 

You common people of the skies, 

What are you when the moon shall rise? 

Ye violets that first appear, 

By your pure purple mantles known, 
Like the proud virgins of the year, 

As if the spring were all your own; 

What are you when the rose is blown? 

Ye curious chaunters of the wood, 

That warble forth dame nature's lays, 

Thinking your passion understood 

By your weak accents — what's your praise, 
When Philomel her voice shall raise? 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 33 

So when my mistress shall he seen, 
In sweetness of her looks and mind; 

By virtue first, then choice a queen, 
Tell me if she was not design'd 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? 

This song is supposed to have been inspired by the charms of the Queen of Bohemia, 
daughter of King James I. It is printed with additional stanzas in Chambers's " Scottish 
Songs," as the composition of Henry Lord Damley, the unfortunate husband of the unfor- 
tunate Maiy Queen of Scots. The additional verses are of no great merit, and do not seem 
to have been the composition of Sir Henry Wotton. Dr. Percy has altered the word "moon," 
in the concluding line of the first stanza, to " sun," but without sufficiently considering 
whether the alteration were an improvement. The " sun" is not one of the beauties of 
the night. The poet knew his meaning better than his critic. 



WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 

Sir Robert Aytoun, born 1570, died 1638. 

I lov'd thee once, I'll love no more, 

Thine be the grief, as is the blame; 
Thou art not what thou wert before. 

What reason I should be the same? 
He that can love, unlov'd again. 
Hath better store of love than brain ; 
God send me love my debts to pay, 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. 
If thou hadst still continued mine; 

Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, 

I might perchance have yet been thine: 

But thou thy freedom did recal, 

That if thou might elsewhere enthral; 

And then how could I but disdain, 

A captive's captive to remain. 

When new desires had conquer'd thee, 
And changed the object of thy wiU; 

It had been lethargy in me. 

Not constancy to love thee still ; 
B 2 



34 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Yea, it had been a sin to go 

And prostitute aflPection so; 

Since we are taught our prayers to say, 

To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice, 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 

ril neither grieve nor yet rejoice, 

To see him gain what I have lost: 

The height of my disdain shall be, 

To laugh at him, to blush for thee, 

To love thee still, but go no more, 

A begging at a beggar's door. 

From Ritson's " Caledonian Muse" — Sir Robert Aytoun was a Scotchman by birth, but 
his poems belong to English literature. 



f 



WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 
John Donne, bom 1573, died 1631. 

If thou beest bom to strange sights, 

Things invisible to see, 
Kide ten thousand days and nights 

Till age snow-white hairs on thee ; 
Thou, when thou return 'st will tell me 
AU strange wonders that befell thee, 
And swear. 
No where, 
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find one let me know. 

Such a pilgrimage were sweet, 
Yet do not! I would not go, 

Though at next door, we might meet; 
Though she were true when you met her. 
And lasted tiU you wrote your letter. 
Yet she, 
WiU be. 
False ere I come, to two or three. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 35 

DEINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES. 

From " The Forest," by Ben Jonson, bom 1574, died 1637. 

Deink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from my soul doth rise, 

Doth ask a drink divine: 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It would not wither'd be. 
But thou thereon did'st only breathe, 

And sent it back to me; 
Since then, it grows and smeUs I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 



STILL TO BE NEAT. 

From " The Forest," by Ben Jonson. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest. 
As you were going to a feast ; 
Still to be powder'd, stiU perfumed, 
Lady, it is to be presumed, 
Tho' art's hid causes are not found, 
All is not sweet, aU is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face 

That makes simplicity a grace; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Than all th' adulteries of art; 

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 



36- SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 

ON CELIA SINGING. 

Thomas Carew, born about 1680, died 1639. 

You that think love can convey, 
No other way 

But through the eyes, into the heart 
His fatal dart; 

Close up those casements, and hut hear 
This syren sing, 
And on the wing 

Of her sweet voice it shall appear 

That love can enter at the ear. 

Then unveil your eyes, hehold 

The curious mould 

Where that voice dwells; and as we know 
When the cocks crow, 
We freely may 
Gaze on the day; 

So may you, when the music's done, 

Awake and see the rising sun. 



HE THAT LOVES A KOSY CHEEK. 

Thomas Caeew. 

He that loves a rosy cheek. 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain its fires; 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and stedfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love comhined 
Kindle never-dying fires; 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

There is another stanza to this song in some editions of the English poets, but so 
inferior in every way to these, and so unnecessary to the chmax of the sentiment, as to 
suggest a doubt whether it has not been added by an inferior hand. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 37 

MEDIOCEITY IN LOVE EEJECTED. 

Thomas Caeew. 

Give me more love, or more disdain; 

The ton-id or tlie frozen zone, 
Brings equal ease unto my pain; 

The temperate affords me none; 
Either exti'eme, of love, or hate, 
Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm; if it he love, 

Like Danae in a golden shower 
I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 

Disdain, that torrent will devour 
My vulture hopes; and he's possessed 

Of Heaven, that's hut from heU releas'd; 
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; 
Give me more love or more disdain. 



1 



SHALL I LIKE A HEEMIT DWELL? 

Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Shall I like a hermit dweU, 

On a rock or in a ceU, 

Calling home the smallest part 

That is missing of my heart, 

To hestow it where I may 

Meet a rival every day? 
If she imdervalue me. 
What care I how fafr she he? 

Were her tresses angel-gold^ 

If a stranger may he hold 

Um-ehuked, imafraid 

To convert them to a hraid; 

And with little more ado 

Work them into bracelets, too; 
If the mine be gTown so free 
What care I how rich it he? 

1 Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown gold. 



I 



38 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. " 

Were her hands as rich a prize 

As her hairs or precious eyes; 

If she lay them out to take 

Kisses, for good-manners' sake; 

And let every lover skip 

From her hand imto her lip ; 

If she seem not chaste to me 
What care I how chaste she be? 

No; she must be perfect snow, 

In effect as well as show, 

Warming but as snow-balls do, 

Not like fire, by burning too ; 

But when she by change hath got 

To her heart a second lot; 

Then if others share with me. 
Farewell her, whate'er she be! 

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful song of George 
Wither, which immediately follows. 



SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR. 

George Wither, born 1588, died 1667. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair ? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
'Cause another's rosy are? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flow'ry meads in May, 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how fair she be? 

Should my heart be grieved or pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
Or a weU disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pehcan. 

If she be not so to me. 

What care I how kind she be ? 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for laer love? 
Or, her well-deservings known, 
Make me quite forget my own? 
Be she with that goodness hlest 
Which may gain her name of hest, 
If she he not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind. 
Where they want of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do, 
That without them dare to woo; 
And, unless that mind I see, 
What care I how great she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair: 

If she love me, this believe, 

I wiU die ere she shall grieve : 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go : 
For, if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be? 

From "The Mistress of Pliilarete," published in 1622, 



39 




40 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

I LOVED A LASS, A FAIE, ONE. 

George Wither. 

I lov'd a lass, a fair one, 

As fair as e'er was seen ; 
She was indeed a rare one. 

Another Sheba Queen ; 
But fool as then I was, 

I thought she lov'd me too. 
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, 

Ealero, lero, loo. 

Her hair like gold did glister. 

Each eye was like a star, 
She did surpass her sister 

Which past all others far; 
She would me honey call, 

She'd, oh— she'd kiss me too, 
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

In summer time to Medley,^ 

My love and I would go — 
The boatmen there stood ready 

My love and I to row; 
For cream there would we call, 

For cakes, and for prunes too, 
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

Many a merry meeting 

My love and I have had; 
She was my only sweeting, 

She made my heart full glad; 
The tears stood in her eyes. 

Like to the morning dew, 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as .left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

1 Medley House, between Godstow and Oxford. It has been supposed by Ritson, 
from the mention of this place of summer recreaiion for the Oxiord students, that Wither 
wrote this beautiful song when at College in the year 1606 ; but it is not likely to have 
been the production of a youth of 18. It did not occur to Ritson that a man may write 
about his college haunts long after he has quitted them. 



SONGS OF TEE AFFECTIONS. 41 

And as abroad we walked. 

As lovers' fashion is. 
Oft as we sweetly talked, 

The sun would steal a kiss; 
The wind upon her lips 

Likewise most sweetly blew, 
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, Ico. 

Her cheeks were like the cherry, 

Her skin as white as snow. 
When she was hlythe and merry. 

She tingellike did show; 
Her waist exceeding small, 

The fives did fit her shoe, 
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, 

Zalero, lero, loo. 

In summer time or winter, 

She had her heart's desire; 
I still did scorn to stint her, 

From sugar, sack, or fire; 
The world went round about, 

Xo cares we ever knew, 
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

As we walk'd home together 

At midnight through the town, 
To keep away the weather — 

O'er her I'd cast my gown; 
Xo cold my love should feel, 

TVhate er the heaven's could do, 
But now, alas I sh" 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

Like doves we would be billing, 

And clip and kiss so fast, 
Yet she would be unwilling 

That I should kiss the last; 
They're Judas kisses now, 

Since that they prov'd untrue ; 
For now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 
c 



42 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

To maiden's vows and swearing, 

Henceforth no credit give, 
You may give them the hearing—* 

But never them believe; 
They are as false as fair, 

Unconstant, frail, untrue; 
For mine, alas! hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

'Twas I that paid for all things, 

'Twas other drank the wine ; 
I cannot now recall things, 

Live but a fool to pine: 
'Twas I that beat the bush, 

The birds to others flew. 
For she, alas! hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

If ever that Dame Nature, 

For this false lover's sake. 
Another pleasing creature 

Like unto her would make; 
Let her remember this, 

To make the other true. 
For this, alas! hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

No riches now can raise me. 

No want makes me despair. 
No misery amaze me. 

Nor yet for want I care; 
I have lost a world itself, 

My earthly heaven, adieu! 
Since she, alas! hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 



TELL ME NO MOKE. 

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, bom 1591, died 1669. 
Tell me no more how fair she is; 

I have no mind to hear 
The stoiy of that distant bliss 

I never shall come near : 
By sad experience I have found 
That her perfection is my wound. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 43 

And tell me not how fond I am 

To tempt my daiing fate, 
From whence no triimiph ever came 

But to repent too late : 
There is some hope ere long I may 
In silence dote myself away. 

I ask no pity, Love, from thee, 

Nor will thy justice blame, 
So that thou wilt not envy me 

The glory of my flame, 
Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, 
In that it falls her sacrifice. 



GO, HAPPY ROSE! 

BoBEET Heebick, bom 1591. 

Go, happy Rose! and interwove 
With other flowers, hind my love. 
Tell her, too, she must not be 
Longer flowiug, longer free, 
That so oft has fetter'd me. 

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; 
Tell her, if she struggle still, 
I have myrtle rods at will, 
For to tame, though not to kill. 

Take thou my blessing thus, and go, 
And tell her this, — but do not so! 
Lest a handsome anger fly. 
Like a hghtning from her eye, 
And bum thee up, as well as I. 




44 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 




GOOD MORROW. 

From " Pleasant Dialogues aud Dramas." Thomas Hetwood, 1607. 
Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow; 
Sweet ail' hlow soft, mount larks aloft, 

To give my love goodmorrow' 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark 111 borrow; 
Bh'd prune thy wing, nightingale sing. 

To give my love goodmorrow! 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them both I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast. 

Sing birds in every furrow, 
And from each hill let music shrill. 

Give my fair love good-morrow! 
Blackbird, and thnish, in every bush. 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 
You pretty elves among yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow! 
To give my love good-mon-ow. 
Sing birds in every furrow. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. | 4 5 

I PEYTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEAET. 

Sir John Suckling, born 1613, died 1641. 

I PEYTHEE send me back my heart, 

Since I cannot have thine; 
For if from yours you will not part, 

Why then shouldst thou have mine? 

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie, 

To find it were in vain; 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 

And yet not lodge together? 
Love ! where is thy sympathy 

If thus our breasts thou sever? 

But love is snch a mystery, 

I cannot find it out; 
For, when I think I'm best resolved, 

Then I am most in doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe; 

I will no longer pine; 
For I'll believe I have her heart, 

As much as she has mine. 



THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP. 

EicHARD Crashaw, born about 1615, died 1652, 

The dew no more shall weep. 

The primrose's pale cheek to deck; 

The dew no more shall sleep, 
Nuzzled in the lily's neck: 

Much rather would it tremble here, 

And leave them both to be thy tear* 

Not the soft gold which 

Steals from the amber-weeping tree, 



46 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

f 

Makes sorrow half so ricli, 

As the drops distill'd from thee : 
Sorrow's best jewels be in these 
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. 

When sorrow would be seen 

In her bright majesty, 
For she is a Queen! 

Then is she dress 'd by none but thee, 
Then, and only then, she wears 
Her richest pearls; — I mean thy tears. 

Not in the evening's eyes 

When they red with weeping are, 

For the sun that dies, 

Sits sorrow with a face so fair : 

No where but here doth meet, 

Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 



I NEVEE YET COULD SEE THAT FACE. 

A. Cowley, born 1618, died 1667. 

I NEVER yet could see that face ^ 

Which had no dart for me ; 
From fifteen years to fifty's space, 

They all victorious be. 

Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face. 
Goodness, or wit, in all I find ; 

In motion or in speech a grace, 
If aU fail, yet 'tis womankind. 

If tall, the name proper stays ; 

If fair, she's pleasant as the light; 
If low, her prettiness does please ; 

If black, what lover loves not night. 

The fat, like plenty, fills my heart. 

The lean, with love makes me too so ; 

If straight, her body's Cupid's dart. 
To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow. 



SO^'GS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 4T 

Thus with unwearied wings I flee 

Through all love's garden and his fields, 

And like the wise industrious bee, 
No weed, but honey to me yields. 

This song is an abridgment of a poem in Cowley's " Mistress," for which several 
incongruous stanzas and parts of stanzas have been judiciously omitted by the musical 
composer. 



TELL ME NOT, SWEET. 

By EicHABD LoTELACE, hoTu 1618, died 1658. 

Tell me not sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind. 

To war and arms I fly. 




True, a new misti-ess now I chase, 
The first foe in the field; 

And with a sti-onger faith embrace 
A sword, a horse, a shield. 



Yet this inconstancy is such, 

As you, too, shall adore; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honour more. 



48 * SONGS OF THE AFFECHONS. 

THE EESOLVE. 

Alexander Beome, born 1620, died 1666. 

Tell me not of a face that's fair, 

Nor lip and cheek that's red, 
Nor of the tresses of her hair, 

Nor curls in order laid ; 
Nor of a rare seraphic voice. 

That like an angel sings; 
Though if I were to take my choice, 

I would have all these things. 
But if that thou wilt have me love, 

And it must be a she; 
The only argument can move 

Is, that she will love me. 

The glories of your ladies be 

But metaphors of things, 
And but resemble what we see 

Each common object brings. 
Koses out-red their lips and cheeks. 

Lilies their whiteness stain: 
What fool is he that shadow seeks. 

And may the substance gain? 
Then if thou 'it have me love a lass. 

Let it be one that's kind, 
^ Else I'm a servant to the glass, 

That's with canary lined. 



AH, HOW SWEET ! 

John Dbyuen, bom 1631, died 1701. 

Ah, how sweet it is to love 1 
Ah, how gay is young desii'e ! 

And what pleasing pains we prove 
When we jS.rst approach love's fire ! 

Pains of love are sweeter far 

Than all other pleasures are. 



SONOS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 49 

Sighs which are from lovers blown 

Do but gently heave the heart: 
E'en the tears they shed alone 

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 
Lovers, when they lose their breath, 
Bleed away in easy death. 

Love and Time with reverence use, 

Treat them like a parting friend; 
Nor the golden gifts refuse 

Which in youth sincere they send : 
For each year their price is more. 
And they less simple than before. 

Love, like spring- tides full and high, 

Swells in every youthful vein ; 
But each tide does less supply, 

Till they quite shrink in again. 
If a flow in age appear, 
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. 

The concluding verse of the first stanza, though possibly unknown to Robert Bums, 
resembles very closely his much admired lines — 

" 'Tis better for those despairing, 
Than aught in the world beside, Jessie." 



FAIE, SWEET, AND YOUNG. 

John Dkyden. 

Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize 

Reserv'd for your victorious eyes: 

From crowds, whom at your feet you see, 

O pity and distiuguish me! 

As I, from thousand beauties more 

Distinguish you, and only you adore. 

Youi face for conquest was design'd ; 
Your ev'ry motion charms my mind ; 
Angels, when you your silence break, 
Forget their hymns to hear you speak; 
But when, at once, they hear and view, 
Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you. 
C 2 



50 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 

No graces can your form improve, 
But all are lost unless you love; 
While that sweet passion you disdain, 
Your veil and beauty are in vain : 
In pity then prevent my fate, 
' For after dying all reprieve's too late. 



YE HAPPY SWAINS. 

Sir George Ethebege, bom about 1636, died 1683. 

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free 

From love's imperial chain, 
Take warning and be taught by me 

To avoid th' enchanting pain ; 
Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, 

Fierce winds to blossoms prove, 
To careless seamen hidden rocks, 

To human quiet love. 

Fly the fair sex if bliss you prize. 

The snake's beneath the flower* 
Whoever gazed on beauteous eyes 

That tasted quiet more? 
How faithless is the lover's joy ! 

How constant is their care ! 
The kind with falsehood do destroy. 

The cruel with despair. 



CEASE ANXIOUS WOKLD. 

Sir George Etherege, 

Cease anxious world, your fruitless pain, 

To grasp forbidden store; 
Your study 'd labours shaU prove vain, 

Your alchemy unblest ; 
Whilst seeds of far more precious ore 

Are ripen 'd in my breast. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

My breast the forge of happier love, 

Where my Lucinda lives; 
And the rich stock does so improve, 

As she her art employs, 
That every smile and touch she gives 

Turns all to golden joys. 

Since thence we can such treasures raise. 

Let's no expense refuse; 
In love let's lay out all our days; 

How can we e'er be poor. 
When every blessing that we use 

Begets a thousand more? 



PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY. 

Sir Charles Sedley, born 1639, died 1701. 

Phillis is my only joy 

Faithless as the wind or seas ; 
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, 
Yet she never fails to please. 
If with a frown 
I am cast down, 
Phillis smiling 
And beguiling. 
Makes me happier than before. 

Though, alas! too late I find 

Nothing can her fancy fire ; 
Yet the moment she is kind, 
I forgive her all her tricks; 
Which though I see, 
I can't get free ; 
She deceiving, 
I believing, 
What need lovers wish for more? 



52 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

REASONS FOR CONSTANCY. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 
Or better than the rest; 

For I would change each hour, like them, 
Were not my heart at rest. 

For I am tied to very thee 
By every thought I have : 

Thy face I only came to see, 
Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is ador'd. 

In thy dear self I find; 
For the whole sex can hut afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store. 
And still make love anew? 

When change itself can give no more, 
*Tis easy to he true. 



THE DEPOSITION. 

Thomas Stanley, born 1644, died 1678. 

Though when I lov'd thee, thou wert fair, 

Thou art no longer so: 
Those glories all the pride they wear 

Unto opinion owe: 
Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine, 
And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. 

The flames that dwelt within thine eye 

Do now with mine expire; 
Thy brightest graces fade and die 

At once with my desire. 
Love's fires thus mutual influence return; 
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



5 a 




Then, proud Celinda, hope no more, 

To be implor'd or woo'd; 
Since by thy scorn tbou dost restore 

The wealth my love bestow'd: 
And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find 
That none are fair but who are kuid. 



THE LOVEE'S VOW. 

Bishop Atteebuky, bom 1662, died 1732. 

Eair Sylvia, cease to blame my youth 

For having lov'd before ; 
So men, till they have learn'd the tnith, 

Stran.^e deities adore. 



54 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

My heart, 'tis true, hath often rang'd 
Like bees on gaudy flowers; 

And many a thousand loves hath chang'd, 
Till it was fix'd on yours. 

But Sylvia, when I saw those eyes, 
'Twas soon deteiTain'd there, 

Stars might as well forsake the skies, 
And vanish into air. 

When I fi-om this gTeat rule do eiT, 

New beauties to adore ; 
May I again turn wanderer, 

And never settle more. 



KIVALKY IN LOVE. 
, William Walsh, bom 1663, died 1709. 

Of all the torments, all the cares, 

With which our lives are curst; 
Of all the plagues a lover bears, 

Sure rivals are the worst ! 
By partners in each other kind. 

Afflictions easier grow ; 
In love alone we hate to find, 

Companions of our woe. 

Sylvia, for all, the pangs you see 

Are lab 'ring in my breast; 
I beg not you would favour me, 

Would you but slight the rest! 
How great soe'er your rigours are, 

With them alone I'U cope; 
I can endure my own despair. 

But not another's hope. 

The author of this song is mentioned in the correspondence and poems of Alexander 
Pope. " In 1705," says Dr. Johnson in his " Lives of the Poets," " Walsh began to 
correspond with Mr. Pope, in whom he discovered very early the power of poetry. Pope 
always retained a grateful sense of Walsh's notice, and mentioned him in one of his 
latest pieces among those that had encouraged his juvenile studies, 

'Granville the polite 
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write.' " 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 55 

THE FIRE OF LOVE. 
From the " Examen Miscellaneum," 1708, where it is said to be by Earl D. (Dorset). 

The fire of love in youthful blood 
Like what is kindled in brushwood, 

But for a moment burns; 
Yet in that moment, makes a mighty noise; 
It crackles, and to vapour turns. 

And soon itself destroys. 

But, when crept into aged veins, 

It slowly burns, and then long remains, 

And with a silent heat, 
Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long; 
And though the flame be not so great, 

Yet is the heat as stronsf. 



FAIE HEBE. 

By Lord Cantalupe. From a half-sheet, with the music, printed about 1720, 
and not included in any collection. 

Fair Hebe I left with a cautious design. 

To escape from her charms, and to drown love in wine; 

I tried it, but found, when I came to depart. 

The wine in my head, but still iove in my heart. 

I repaii-'d to my Reason, entreating her aid. 
Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd ; 
Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer. 
That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair! 

"That's a truth," replied I, " I've no need to be taught, 
I came for your counsel to find out a fault;" 
"If that's all," says Reason, "retm-n as you came. 
For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name." 

What hopes, then, alas! of rehef from my pain. 

When, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing veiu 

My senses surprised, in her favour took arms. 

And Reason confines me, a. slave to her charms ! 



56 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

TILL DEATH I SYLVIA MUST ADORE. 

From " The Hive." 

Till death I Sylvia must adore; 
No time my freedom can restore; 
For though her rigour makes me smart, 
Yet when I strive to free my heart, 
Straight all my senses take her part. 

And when against the cruel maid, 
I call my reason to my aid; 
But that, alas! I plainly see 
That nothing lovely is, hut she; 
And reason captivates me more, 
Than aU my senses did before. 



WHY, LOVELY CHARMER. 

From " The Hive." 

Why, lovely charmer, tell me why, 
So very kind, and yet so shy? 
Why does that cold forbidding air 
Give damps of sorrow and despair? 
Or why that smile my soul subdue, 
And kindle up my flames anew? 

In vain you strive with all your art, 
By turns to fire and freeze my heart; 
When I behold a face so fair, 
So sweet a look, so soft an aii', 
My ravish'd soul is charmed all o'er, 
I cannot love thee less or more. 



UNHAPPY LOVE. 

From " The Hive." 

I SEE she flies me everywhere, 

Her eyes her scorn discover, 

But what's her scorn, or my despah, 

Since 'tis my fate to love her? 

Were she all but kind whom I adore 

I might live longer, but not love her more. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 57 

TELL ME, MY HEAKT, IF THIS BE LOVE? 

George Lord Lyttelton, born 1709, died 1773. 

When Delia on the plain appears, 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move; — 
TeU me, my heart, if this be love? 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear 
No other voice than her's can hear; 
No other wit but her's approve; — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

If she some other swain commend,^ 
Tho' I was once his fondest friend, 
His instant enemy I prove ; — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before, 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove; — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

When fond of power, of beauty vain. 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — 
TeU me, my heart, if this be love? 



THE SHAPE ALONE. 

Assigned to Akenside (born 1721, died 1770) by Bitson, but not contained 
bis works. 

The shape alone let others prize. 

The features of the fair ; 
I look for spirit in her eyes, 

And meaning in her air. 

A damask cheek and ivory arm 
Shall ne'er my wishes win; 

Give me an animated form 
That speaks a mind within ; 



58 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

A face where awful honour shines, 
Where sense and sweetness move, 

And angel innocence refines 
The tenderness of love. 

These are the soul of beauty's frame, 
Without whose vital aid 

Unfinish'd all her features seem, 
And all her roses dead. ^ 

But ah ! where both their charms unite. 
How perfect is the view. 

With every image of delight, 
With graces ever new ! 

Of power to charm the deepest woe, 
The wildest rage control ; 

Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, 
And rapture thro' the soul. 

Their power but faintly to express 
All language must despair ; 

But go behold Aspasia's face. 
And read it perfect there. 



NANCY WILT THOU GO WITH ME? 

Thomas Pkrcy, D.D., Bishop of Dromore, editor of the " Kelics of Ancient 
English Poetry," born 1728, died 1811. 

O Nakcy wilt thou go with me, 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? 
Can silent glens have charms for thee. 

The lonely cot and russet gown? 
No longer drest in silken sheen, 

No longer deck'd with jewels rare, 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ^U 

O Nancy ! when tbon'rt far awav, 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind? 
O can that soft and gentle mien, 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear, 
Nor sad regi-et each courtly scene. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nancy ! can'st thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go, 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, 

To share with him the pang of woe? 
Say, should disease or pain befall, 

Will thou assume the nurse's care, 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

And when at last thy love shall die. 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath? 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay. 

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 



THE THOEN. 

Anonymous. The Music by Sbield. 

From the white blossom 'd sloe, my dear Chloe requested 

A sprig her fair breast to adorn; 
No ! By Heavens, I exclaim 'd, may I perish. 

If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn I 

When I show'd her the ring and implored her to marry, 

She blush 'd like the dawning of morn. 
Yes, yes! I'll consent, she replied, if you'll promise, 

That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn ! 



©9 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN. 

Oliveb Goldsmith, bom 1731, died 1774. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy? 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to coyer, 

To hide her shame from eveiy eye, 
To give repentance to her lover, 

And wring his bosom, is — to die.^ 

1 " For elegant simplicity of language, harmony of versification, andpoiutf'd neatness 
of composition," says Dr. Aikin in his " Vocal Poetry," " there are not, perhaps, to be found 
in the language two more finished stanzas than these, which are introduced in ' The 
Vicar of Wakefield." It may be doubted whether this eulogium be deserved. To die is not 
an 'art.' And, independently of this verbal objection, the philosophy of the song is not 
irreproachable. A betrayed woman need not, as a matter of course, commit suicide." 



DEAE BETTY. 

Sir Charles Hanbuky Williams. 

Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses, 

For sweeter no girl ever gave; 
But why, in the midst of our blisses, 

Do you ask me how many I'd have? 
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure; 

Then prithee, dear Betty, be kind; 
For as I love thee beyond measure. 

To numbers I'll not be confined. 

Count the bees that on Hybla are straying, 

Count the flowers that enamel the fields, 
Count the flocks that on Temp6 are playing, 

Or the grains that each Sicily yields; 
Count how many stars are in Heaven; 

Go reckon the sands on the shore, 
And when so many kisses you've given, 

I stQl wlQ be asking for more. 

To a heart full of love let me hold thee, 
A heart that, dear Betty, is thine; 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 61 

In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee, 
And curl round thy neck like a Tine. 

What joy can be greater than this is? 
My life on thy lips shaU be spent; 

But those who can number their kisses 
Will always with few be content. 

Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Bart., wrote a areat number of political and other 
songs, which, -with his other works were published in 1822, in 3 vols., from the original 
MSS. in the possession of his grandson the Earl of Essex, with notes by Horace 
Walpole. This song — the only one of the many which is a shade above mediocrity — is 
an imitation of MartiaL lib. vi. Ep. xxxiv. The greater portion of the songs of this 
writer were produced between 1730 and 174-5. 



PRETTY LITTLE SUE. 

For the Myrtle and the Vine, a.d. 17S0. 

My fair, ye swains, is gone astray, 
The little wand'rer lost her way ; 
In gathering flow'rs the other day; 
Sing high, sing high, sing low ; 
O lead her home, ye gentle swains. 
Who know an absent lover's pains, 
And bring in safety o'er the plahis 
My pretty little Sue. 

"VMiene'er a charming form you see. 
Serenely gi*ave, sedately free, 
bring her, for it must be she ; 

Sing high, sing high, sing low; 
When such a tuneful voice you hear 
As make you think a sp'en's near, 
bring her, for it is my dear, 
My pretty Httle Sue. 

But rest my soul, and bless your fate, 
The gods who foi-m'd her so complete, 
Will safely guard her harmless feet, 

Sing high, sing high, sing low: 

lead her home, ye gentle swains, 

Who know an absent lover's pains. 

And biing in safety o'er the plains 

My pretty little Sue. 



62 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

HAD I A HEART FOB FALSEHOOD FRAMED. 

R. B. Shkriuan, born 1751, died 1816. 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you; 
For though your tongue no promise claimed, 

Your charms would make me true: 
To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong, 
But friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

But when they learn that you have blest 

Another with your heart, 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest. 

And act a brother's part ; 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong, 
For friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And lovers in the young. 



LOVE AND GLORY. 

Thomas Dibdin, born 1771, died 1841. 

Young Henry was as brave a youth 
As ever graced a martial story; 

And Jane was fair as lovely truth ; 

She sighed for Love, and he for Glory. 

With her his faith he meant to plight, 
And told her many a gallant story ; 

Till war, their coming joys' to blight, 
Call'd him away from Love to Glory. 

Young Henry met the foe with pride; 

Jane followed, fought ! ah, hapless story ! 
In man's attire, by Henry's side. 

She died for Love, and be for Glory. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 63 

EEMEMBEE, LOVE, EEMEMBER. 

Anonymous. 

'TwAS ten o'clock one moonlight night, 

I ever shall remember, 
When eveiy star shone twinkling bright, 

In frosty dark December, 
V\ hen at the window, tap, tap, tap, 
I heard a certain well known rap. 
And with it breath'd these words most clear, 
Eemember ten o'clock, my dear, 

Eemember, love, remember. 

My mother dozed before the fire, 

My dad his pipe was smoking, 
I dared not for the world retire, 

Now was that not provoking ? 
At length, the old folks fa,st asleep, 
I flew my promised word to keep, 
And sm^e his absence to denote, 
He on the window shutters wrote, 
Eemember, love, remember. 



DOMESTIC PEACE. 

S. T. CoLERiDUE, born 1770, died 1834. 

Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found — 
Halcyon daughter of the skies ! 
I'ar on fearful wings she flies. 
From the pomp of sceptered State, 
Erom the Eebel's noisy hate, 
In a cottaged vale she dwehs 
Listening to the Sabbeth beUs! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honom-'s meeker mien, 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
And conscious of the past employ 
Memory, bosom spring of joy. 



64= SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

OH! SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEAET IS BOUGHT. 

J. B. Payne. 
Oh ! say not woman's heart is bought 

With vain and empty treasure; 
Oh ! say not woman's heart is caught 

By every idle pleasure. 
When first her gentle bosom knows 

Love's flame, it wanders never; 
Deep in her heart the passion glows, 

She loves, and loves for ever. 

Oh! say not woman's false as fair, 

That like the bee she ranges; 
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, 

As fickle fancy changes. 
Ah ! no, the love that first can warm, 

Will leave her bosom never; 
No second passion e'er can charm, 

She loves, and loves for ever. 
From the Opera of Clari, the Maid of Milan. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

William Wordswokth, born 1770, died 1850. 
She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely apparition sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like twilight's too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions Hght and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 05 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath 
A Traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Sphit stiU, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 



HAVE YE NOT SEEN THE TIMID TEAR' 

Thomas Mooke. 
Have ye not seen the timid tear. 

Steal trembling from mine eye? 
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, 

Or caught the mm-mur'd sigh. 
And can you think my love is chill, 

Nor fixed on you alone? 
And can you rend, by doubting still, 

A heart so much your own. 

To you my soul's afiections move. 

Devoutly, warmly true ; 
My life has been a task of love, 

One long long thought of you. 
If aU your tender faith is o'er, 

If still my truth you'U try, 
Alas ! I know but one proof more — 

I'n bless yom- name and die. 



COME, TELL ME WHERE THE MAID IS FOUND. 

Thomas Moore. 
Come tell me where the maid is found. 

Whose heart can love without deceit. 
And I will range the world around, 
To sigh one moment at her feet. 
D 2 



06 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home, 
What air receives her hlessed sigh, 

A pilgrimage of years I'll roam 

To catch one sparkle of her eye ! 



And if her cheek he rosy bright, 

While truth within her hosom hes, 

I'll gaze upon her mom and night, 

Till my heart leave me through my eyes! 

Show me on earth a thing so rare, 

I'U own all miracles are true ; 
To make one maid sincere and fair. 

Oh! 'tis the utmost Heav'n can do! 



: MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE. 

Thomas Mooke. 

Mary, I believed thee true. 

And I was blest in thus believing; 
But now I mourn that e'er I knew 

A girl so fair and so deceiving. 
Few have ever loved like me; 

Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely; 
And few have e'er deceived Hke thee, 

Alas ! deceived me too severely. 
Fare thee well! 

Fare thee well! yet think awhile 

On one whose bosom seems to doubt thee; 
Who now would rather trust that smile, 

And die with thee than hve without thee. 
Fare thee well! I'U think on thee. 

Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ; 
For see, distracting woman, see 

My peace is gone, my heart is broken. 
Fare thee well! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 67 

COUNTY GUY. 

Sir Walter Scott, bora 1771, died 1832. 

Oh ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark his lay, who trill 'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To beauty shy, by lattice high. 

Sings high born Cavalier. 
The star of love, all stars above. 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky; 
Now high and low, the influence know. 

But where is County Guy. 

This song is introduced into the Novel of " Quentin Durward." 



DEAE OBJECT OF DEFEATED CAKE. 

Lord BrRON, bom 1788, died 1824. 

Dear object of defeated care 

Though now of love and thee bereft ; 

To reconcile me with despair, 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said, with sorrow time can cope, 

But that I feel can ne'er be true; 
For by the death-blow of my hope, 

My memory immortal grew. 

These lines are said, in a note to volume 3rd of Lord Byron's "Miscellany" 1837, to 
have been copied from a leaf of the original MS. of the second canto of " Childe Harold.' 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

FAEEWELL. 

Lord Bykon. 

Eaeewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twas vain to speak, to weep, to sigh; 

Oh, more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Ai-e in the word — Farewell ! Fai'ewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are diy; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, 
Though grief and passion there rebel, 
I only know I loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! Farewell ! 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, bom 1793, died 1822. 

The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the river with ocean; 
The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother: 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;- 
What are aU these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me? 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 60 

LOVE'S FOLLIES. 

W. T. MoNCKiKFF, From Poems privately printed, A.D. 1820. 

"When, liiU'd in passion's dream my senses slept, 
How did I act? — e'en as a wayward child; 

I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept! 
And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled; 

When Gracia, beautiful but faithless fair, 

Who long in passion's bonds my heart had kept, 

Eu'st with false blushes pitied my despau', 

I smiled with pleasm-e ! — should I not have wept? 

And when, to gi'atify some wealthier wight, 
She left to giief the heart she had beguiled; 

That heart gi'ew sick, and saddening at the sight, 
I wept with sonow !— should I not have smiled? 



WHY ARE YOU WAND'RING HERE, I PRAY? 

From Kenny's Comedy of " Swealhearts and Wives." 

" Why are you wand'ring here, 1 pray?" 
An old man asked a maid one day, 
"Looking for poppies so bright and red, 
Eather," said she, "I'm hither led." 
" Eie, fie !" she heard him ciy, 
" Poppies 'tis known, to all who rove, 
Grow in the field and not in the gi'ove. 

" Tell me," again the old man said, 

" Why are you loit'ring here, fair maid?" 

"The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear, 

Eather," said she " I'm come to hear." 

" Fie, fie !" she heard him ciy, 

" Nightingales aU, so people say. 

Warble by night, and not by day. 



70 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

The sage looked grave, the maiden shy, 
When Lu bin jump' d o'er the style hard by; 
The sage look'd graver, the maid more glum, 
Lubin, he twiddled his finger and thumb : 




" Fie, fie ;" was the old man's cry, 
" Poppies like these I own are rare. 
And of such nightingale's songs beware.' 



SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW. 

Hartley Colekidge. 

She is not fair to outward view, 

As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me : 
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright — 
A well of love, a spring of light. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 
To mine they ne'er reply; 

And yet I cease not to behold, 
The love-light in her eye: 

Her very frowns are better far 

Than smiles of other maidens are ! 



1 LOVE BUT THEE. 

If after all you still will doubt and fear me, 
And think this heart to other loves will stray, 

If I must swear then, lovely doubter hear me, 
By all those dreams I have when thou'rt away; 

By every throb I feel when thou art near me — 
I love but thee — I love but thee. 

By those dark eyes where light is ever playing, 
Where love in depth of shadow holds his throne, 

And by those lips which give whate'er thou'rt saying, 
Or grave or gay, a music of its own ; 

A music far beyond all minstrel's playing, 
I love but thee — I love but thee. 

By that fair brow where innocence reposes. 
Pure as the moonlight sleeping upon snow, 

And by that cheek whose fleeting blush discloses, " 
A hue too bright to bless this world below ; 

And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses. 
I love but thee — I love but thee. 



OH! NO, WE NEVEE MENTION HER. 

Thomas Haynes Bayley, born 1797, died 1839, 

Oh ! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard. 
My lips are how forbid to speak, that once familiar word; 
From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, d. 
And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget. 

I'hey bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see, 
But were 1 in a foreign land, they would find no change in me. 
'Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met, 
I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget. 



72. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me, 
The hreeze upon the sunny hills, the hillows of the sea ; 
The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set. 
Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget. 

They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay, 

They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say; 

Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret. 

But if she loves as I do love, she never can forget. 



SALLY. 

Samuel Lover. 

"Sally! Sally! shilly shally ! Sally why not name the day?" 
" Harry, Harry ! I will tarry longer in love's flow'ry way." 
" Sally, why not make your mind up? Why embitter thus my cup?" 
" Harry, I've so great a mind, it takes a long time making up." 

" Sally, Sally ! in the valley, you have promised many a time, 
On the summer Sunday morning, as we heard the matin chime, 
Listening to those sweet bells ringing, calling grateful hearts to pray, 
I have whispered, oh, how sweetly, they'll proclaim our wedding day." 

"Harry, Harry! I'll not marry, till I find your eyes don't stray; 
At Kate Kiley you so slily stole a wink the other day." 
" But Kate Riley, she's my cousin." — " Harry, I have cousins too. 
If you will have close relations, I have cousins close as you," 

" Sally, Sally! do not rally, do not mock my tender woe; 
Play me not thus shilly shally, Sally do not tease me so; 
Whilst you're smiling, hearts beguiling, doing all a woman can, 
Think, though you're almost an angel, I am but a mortal man." 

There is a much older song, which appears to have been the model upon which this 
is founded, beginning — - 

Prithee, Billy, be'nt so silly, 

Thus to waste thy days in grief, 
For young Betty, will not let ye, 

But can^sorrow give relief? 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

LOVE IN HATE. 

Charles Mackay. 
Once I tliought I could adore him, 

Kich or poor, beloved the same; 
Now I hate him, and abhor him — 

Now I loathe his very name — 
Spurn'd at, when I sued for pity — 

Robb'd of peace and virgin fame. 

If my hatred could consume him, 
Soul and body, heart and brain. 

If my will had power to doom him 
To eternity of pain; 

I would strike — and die, confessing 
That I had not lived in vain. 

Oh, if in my bosom lying, 

I could work him deadly scathe ! 

Oh, if I could clasp him, dying, 
And receive his parting breath — 

In one burst of burning passion 
I would kiss him into death ! 

I would cover with embraces 

Lips, that once his love confessed. 

And that falsest of false faces, 
Mad, enraptured, unrepressed; — 

Then in agony of pity 

I would die upon his breast. 



LOVE NOT. 
Hon. Mrs. Norton. 
Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ; 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away, 
When they have blossom'd but a few short hours. 

Love not, love not. 

Love not, love not : the thing you love may die — 
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; 
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. 

Love not, love not. 



74 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Love not, love not: the thing you love may change, 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; 
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, 
The heart still warmly heat, yet not he ti-ue. 

Love not, love not. 

Love not, love not : oh ! wai^ning vainly said, 
In present years, as in the years gone by ; 
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head; 
Faultless, immortal — till they change or die. 

Love not love not. 





PASTORAL AND 



UNDER the title of Pastoral and Rural Songs maybe included 
some of the most beautiful specimens of our early poetical 
literature. Vast quantities of these songs, once popular among 
the English people, anterior to the reign of Elizabeth, have 
perished altogether. Many of them in all probability were 
never committed to the custody of print and paper, and escaped 
with the breath of the wandering minstrels who composed and sang 
them. Others, again, at a somewhat later period, fared but little 
better at the hands of Time: " ' Edax carminum,' as well as 
' Edax renim.' The ancient songs of the people," says DTsraeli 
the elder, "perished by having been printed in single sheets, and 
by their humble purchasers having no other library to preserve 
them than the walls on which they pasted them. Those we now 
have consist of a succeeding race of ballads." The pastoral love- 



76 PASTORAL SONGS. 

songs, which we owe chiefly to the writers of the age of the 
Stuarts, include few compositions so beautiful as Marlowe's 
" Passionate Shepherd to his Love," and Sir Walter Raleigh's 
"Reply." The shepherds of that race of lyrists were, with few 
exceptions, merely stage shepherds in the usual theatrical costume, 
and the shepherdesses were *' ladies of quality," dressed up for 
the occasion. Even Shakspeare himself, who touched or bor- 
rowed nothing that he did not improve, could make little of this 
kind of composition. It was not true to nature ; and yet it con- 
tinued in that decline of literary taste which began, in the reign 
of Charles the Second, to have charms for writers, readers, and 
singers. 

Such ditties as the following had far more vitality than merit : — 

" By a murmuring stream a fair shepherdess lay, 
'Be so kind, ye nymphs,' I oft heard her say, 
' Tell Strephon I die, if he passes this way. 

And that love is the cause of my mourning. 
False shepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms, 
You deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms ; 
Yet bring me the swain, let me die in his arms, 
Oh ! Strephon's the cause of my mourning.' " 

At last, according to the most popular of all the pastorals, the 
nymph died, and Strephon came by : — 

" Her eyes were scarce closed when her Strephon came by. 
He thought she'd been sleeping, and softly drew nigh ; 
But finding her breathless, ' Oh, heavens !' he did cry, 
'Ah, Chloris! the cause of my mourning.' " 

Ultimately, Strephon himself, smitten with remorse, fell down by 
her side, and died: — 

" On her cold snowy breast he lean'd down his head. 
And expired, the poor Strephon, with mourning." 

The satire of Pope, and the verses of the Lady of Quality, 
(which we have previously quoted in our remarks prefacing the 
" Songs of the Affections ") did not produce much effect in putting 
a stop to this affectation, and the age persisted in looking with 
favour upon pastoral love songs, in which all lovers were repre- 
sented as shepherds and shepherdesses, billing and cooing amid 



PASTORAL SONGS. 77 

their sheep, by the side of purling brooks. Corydon wept among 
his flocks because Chloe or Phoebe was cruel, and Chloe called 
upon echo to repeat the name of Corydon — the falsest of shep- 
herds and of men. The pastoral mania lasted for a consider- 
able time; and traces of it are to be found in the popular 
songs of the last half of the eighteenth and the commence- 
ment of the present century, when it finally went out, much to 
the gratification of all lovers of true poetry. 

The rural songs, that make no attempt at describing the 
loves and sorrows of Strephon and the Amyntas, and the other 
masquerading shepherds are of a higher class than these. The 
pleasures and enjoyments of a country life have always been, and 
always will be, themes for song; and descriptions of natural 
scenery, intermingled with those sentiments and feelings which 
they naturally prompt — gaiety to the gay, and sadness to the 
sad — will ever inspire the true lyrist. The songs of a succeeding 
age, like those which charmed our forefathers and which charm 
ourselves, must draw largely from this source ; and the banish- 
ment of wine as a subject of lyric eulogy, and of paganism as a 
subject of illustration for modern thought and feeling, will 
increase the number of those purer compositions, which the present 
age has begun to insist upon, and which the next will insist upon 
more strongly. 




PASTORAL SOJSGS. 




THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

Christophek Marlowe, born 15 — , died 1593. 

Come live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all tlie pleasures prove, 
That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, 
The woods or steepy mountains yields. 

And we will sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks. 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls, 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies; 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle. 
Embroidered o'er with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair lined slippers for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold. 



TASTORAL SONGS. ' '^ 

A belt of Straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 
For thy dehght, each May morning ; 
If these dehghts thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 



THE NYMPH'S KEPLY. 

Sir Walter Raleigh, bom 1552, died 1618. 

If aU the world and love were young, 
And ti'uth on every Shepherd's tongue. 
These pleasures might my passion move, 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Bift fading flowers in every field, 
To winter floods their treasures yield;- 
A honey' d tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall. 

Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten, 
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw, and iv}^-buds. 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs. 
Can me with no enticements move. 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

But could Youth last, could Love still breed 
Had Joy no date, had Age no need; 
Then those delights my mind might move, 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Originally printed with the signature of "Ignotus." 



80 PASTORAL SONGS. 

PHILLIS THE FAIE, 

Nicholas Bketon, born 1555, died 16 — . 

On a hill there grows a flower, 

Fair befall the dainty sweet! 
By that flower, there is a bower 
Where the heavenly muses meet. 

In that bower there is a chair. 
Fringed all about with gold, 

Where doth sit the fairest fair, 
That ever eye did yet behold. 

It is Phillis, fau' and bright. 

She that is the shepherd's joy, 

She that Venus did despite. 

And did blind her little boy. , 

Who would not that face admire? 

Who would not this saint adore? 
Who would not this sight desire? 

Though he thought to see no more. 

Thou that art the shepherd's queen, 
Look upon thy love-sick swain; 

By thy comfort have been seen, 

Dead men brought to life again. 



THE DISCONSOLATE SHEPHERD. 

From the " Passionate Pilgrim." William Shakspeabe. 

My flocks feed not. 

My ewes breed not, 

My rams speed not. 
All is amiss: 

Love is dying, 

Faith's defying. 

Heart's denying, 
Causes of this. 
All my meny jigs are quite forgot, 
All my lady's love is lost, God wot: 
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, 
There a nay is placed without remove. 



PASTORAL SONOS. 81 

One silly cross 

Wrought all my loss; 
O jfrowning fortune, cursed, fickle dame! 

For now I see, 

Inconstancy 
More in women than in men remain. 

In black mourn I, 

All fears scorn I, 

Love hath forlorn me, 
Living in thrall: 

Heart is bleeding, 

All help needing, 

(0 cruel speeding !) 
Fraughted with gall. 
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, 
My wether's bell rings doleful knell; 
My curtail dog that wont to have play'd. 
Plays not at all, but seems afraid; 
With sighs so deep, 
Procures to weep, 

In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight. 



Through heartless ground, 
Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight! 
Clear well spring not, 
Sweet birds sing not 
Forth ; they die: 
Herds stand weeping, 
Flocks all sleeping. 
Nymphs back peeping 
Fearfully. 
All the pleasure known to us poor swains, 
AU our merry meetings on the plains. 
All our evening sport from us is tied. 
All our love is lost; — for love is dead. 
Farewell, sweet lass, 
Thy like ne'er was 
For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan 
Poor Coridon 
Must live alone. 
Other help for him I see that there is none 
E 2 



&2 PASTORAL SONGS. 

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING. 

From Thomas Heywood's " Fayre Maide of the Exchange," 1615. 

Ye little birds that sit and sing 
Amidst the shady vallies, 
And see how PhilHs sweetly walks 
Within her garden alleys ; 
Go, pretty birds, about her bower, 
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower, 
Ah me ! methinks, I see her frown, 
Ye pretty wantons warble. 

Go teU her through your chirping bills, 
As you by me are bidden, 
To her is only known my love. 
Which from the world is hidden. 
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so. 
See that your notes strain, not too low, 
For still methinks I see her frown, 
Ye pretty wantons warble. 

Go tune your voices' harmony, 
And sing I am her lover; 
Strain loud and sweet, that every note 
With sweet content may move her; 
And she that hath the sweetest voice. 
Tell her I will not change my choice ; 
Yet still methinks I see her frown, 
Ye pretty wantons warble. 

fly, make haste, see, see she falls 
Into a pretty slumber; 
Sing round about her rosy bed, 
That waking, she may wonder. 
Sing to her 'tis her lover true 
That sendeth love by you and you; 
And when you hear her kind reply, 
Eeturn with pleasant warbhngs. 



PASTORAL SONGS. 83 

WHAT PLEASUEE HAVE GHEAT PRINCES.- 

From Byed's " Songs and Sonnets of Sadness and Pietie," 1588. 

What pleasure have great priuces, 

More dainty to their choice, 
Than herdmen wild, who careless. 

In quiet life rejoice. 
And fortune's fate not fearing. 
Sing sweet in summer morning? 

Their dealings plain and rightful, 

Are void of all deceit; 
They never know how spiteful 

It is to kneel and wait; 
On favourite presumptuous, 
Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. 

All day their flocks each tendeth, 

At night they take their rest, 
More quiet than he who sendeth 

His ship into the East; 
Where gold and pearl are plenty, 
But getting very dainty. 

For lawyers and their pleading 

They 'steem it not a straw; 
They think that honest meaning 

Is of itself a law, 
Where conscience judgeth plainly; 
They spend no money vainly. 

Oh, happy who thus liveth. 

Not caring much for gold. 
With clothing which sufliceth 

To keep him from the eold, 
Thougli poor and plain his diet, 
Yet merry it is, and quiet. 



84 PASTORAL SONGS. 

WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING. 

William Browne, bom 1690, died 1645. 

From a MS. copy of his poems in the Laasdowne collection. 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing, 
Ear more welcome than the Spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love that to the voice is near, 

Breaking from your ivory pale. 
Need not walk abroad to hear 

The delightful nightingale. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 

Love, that looks still on your eyes, 

Though the winter have begun 
To benumb our arteries. 

Shall no want the summer's sun. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks, 

Where all rareness still reposes, 
'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks 

Other lilies, other roses. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 
And perceives your breath in kissing, 
•► All the odours of the fields, 

Never, never, shall be missing. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 

Love that question would anew. 

What fair Eden was of old. 
Let him rightly study you, 

And a brief of that behold. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 

We are indebted to Browne for having presei'ved in his " Shepherd's Pipe," a curious 
poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceivt;s his works to " have been well known to 
Milton," and refers to "Britannia's Pastorals" for the assemblage of circiimstauoes in a 
morning landscape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton 
in a passage of L'Allegro, which has been supposed to serve as the repository of imagery 
on that subject for all succeeding poets — Ellis. 



PASTORAL SONGS. 85 

INVITATION TO MAY. 

From TxioMAS Mor ley's Ballets, 1595. 

Now is the month of maying 
When merry lads are playing, 
Fa, la, la. 

Each with his bonny lass. 
Upon the greeny grass, 

Fa, la, la. 

The Spring, clad all in gladness, 
Doth laugh at winter's sadness, 
Fa, la, la. 

And to the bagpipe's sound 
The nymphs tread out their ground, 
Fa, la, la. 



Fye then ! why sit we musing, 
lelight refu 
Fa, la, la. 



Youth's sweet delight refusing? 



Say, dainty nymphs, and speak. 
Shall we play at barley-break?^ 
Fa, la, la. 



THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY. 

James Shirley, bora 159G, died 1686. 
Woodmen, shepherds, come away, 
This is Pan's great holiday; 

Throw off cares. 
With your heaven-aspiring airs 

Help us to sing, 
While valleys with your echoes ring. 

Nymphs that dwell within these groves, 
Leave your arbours, bring your loves. 

Gather posies, 
Crown your golden hair with roses, 

As you pass, 
Foot like fairies on the grass. 

1 A game popular in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and peculiar to the May season 
of the year. 



>86 PASTORAL SONGS. 

Joy crown our bowers! Philomel 
Leave off Tereus rape to tell: 

Let trees dance, 
As they at Thracian lyrS did once : 

Mountains play, 
This is the shepherd's holiday. 



THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE. 

John Chalkhill, bora 1599, died 1679. 

Oh, the sweet contentment 

The countryman doth find ! 
High troloUie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

That quiet contemplation 

Possesseth all my mind, 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

For courts are full of flattery, 

As hath too oft been try'd; 
High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

The city full of wantonness. 

And both are full of pride ; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

But, oh ! the honest countryman 

Speaks truly from his heart, 
High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

His pride is in his tiUage, 

His horses, and his cart; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

Our clothing is good sheep-skins, 

Grey russet for our wives; 
High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

'Tis warmth, and not gay clothing, 

That doth prolong our lives; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

The ploughman, though he labour hard, 

Yet on the holy day, 
B-igh trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

No euiperor so merrily 

Does I as his time away ; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 



PASTORAL SONGS. , 8T 

To recompense our tillage 

The heavens afford us showers, 
High trolollie, lollie, lol, high troloUie, lee. 

And for our sweet refreshments 

The earth affords us bowers ; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

The cuckoo and the nightingale 

Full men-ily do sing, 
High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

And with their pleasant roundelays 

Bid yvelcome to the spring; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

This is not half the happiness 

The countryman enjoys; 
High, trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee. 

Though others think they have as much, 

Yet he that says so, lies; 
Then, care away, and wend along with me. 

This song appears in Walton's Angler, 1653. So little was formerly known of this 
author, that it was supposed that his very name was the invention of Isaac Walton 
himself, and that Walton was the real author of all the compositions to which it is 
attached. This, however, is not the fact, for " Chalkhill's" tomb of black marble is still 
to be seen on the walls of Winchester Cathedral, and ,from this it appears that he died 
May 1679, aged 80. 



AMINTOKS WELL'A-DAY. 

Dr. R. Hughes; from Lawes's third book of Ayres, 1653. 

Chloris now thou art fled away, 
Amintor's sheep are gone astray. 
And all the joy he took to see 
His pretty lambs run after thee; 
Is gone, is gone, and he alway, 
Sings nothing now but well-a-day! 

His oaten pipe, that is thy praise 
Was wont to sing such roundelays, 
Is thrown away, and not a swain, 
Dares pipe, or sing within his plain; 
'Tis death for any now to say, 
One word to him but well-a-day! 



PASTORAL SONGS. 

The May-pole where thy little feet 
So roundly did in measures meet, 
Is broken down, and no content 
Comes near Amintor, since you went. 
All that I ever heard him say, 
Was Chloris, Chloris, well-a-day. 

Upon these banks you us'd to thread, 
He ever since hath laid his head, 
And whisper'd there such pining woe, 
As not a blade of grass will grow; 
O Chloris, Chloris, come away, 
And hear Amintor's well-a-day! 



COLIN'S COMPLAINT. 

Nicholas Rowe, bom 1673, died 1718. 

Despairing beside a clear stream, 

A shepherd forsaken was laid ; 
And while a false nymph was his theme, 

A willow supported his head: 
The wind that blew over the plain, 

To his sighs with a sigh did reply. 
And the brook, in return to his pain, 

Ean mournfully murmuring by. 

Alas! silly swain that I was, 

Thus sadly complaining, he cried; 
When first I beheld that fair face, 

'Twere better by far I had died: 
She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue ; 

When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great; 
I listen'd and cry'd when she sung, 

Was nightingale ever so sweet! 

How foolish was I to believe 

She could dote on so slowly a clown, 
Or that her fond heart would not grieve, 

To forsake the fine folk of the town : 
To think that a beauty so gay. 

So kind and so constant would prove, 
Or go clad like our maidens in gi-ey, 

Or live in a cottage on love? 



PASTORAL SOXGS. 89 

What though I have skill to complain, 

Tho' the muses my temples have erown'd ; 
What the' when they hear my soft strain, 

The virgins sit weeping around? 
Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vahi, 

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, 
Thy false one inclines to a swain, 

Whose music is sweeter than thine. 

All you, my companions so dear, 

Who sorrow to see me hetray'd, 
Whatever I suffer, forhear, 

Torhear to accuse the false maid, 
Tho' thro' the wide world I should range, 

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly, 
'Twas hers to he false and to change, — 

'Tis mine to be constant and die. 

If while my hard fate I sustain. 

In her breast any pity is found, 
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, 

And see me laid low in the ground: 
The last humble boon that I crave, 

Is to shads me with cypress and yew; 
And when she looks down on my gi'ave, 

Let her o\vti that her shepherd was true. 

Then to her new love let her go, 

And deck her in golden array; 
Be finest at eveiy fine show, 

And frolic it all the long day: 
While Cohn, forgotten and gone, 

No more shall be talked of or seen. 
Unless when beneath the pale moon, 

His ghost shall glide over the green. 



90 PASTORAL 30NGS. 

AS I WALKED FORTH ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 

From Playford's "Airs and Dialogues," 1676. 

As I walk'd forth one summers day, 
To view the meadows green and gay, 
A cool-retreating bower I spied, 
That flourished near the river's side ; 

Where oft in tears a maid would cry, 

Did ever maiden love as I. 

Then o'er the grassy fields she'd walk, 
And nipping flowers low by the stalk, 
Such flowers as in the meadow grew, 
The deadman's thumb, and harebell blue; 
And as she pull'd them, still cried she, 
Alas, none ever lov'd like me! 

Such flowers as gave the sweetest scents 
She bound about with knotty bents; 
And as she bound them up in bands, 
She sigh'd, and wept, and wrung her hands; 
Alas! alas! still sobbed she, 
Alas! none ever lov'd like me. 

When she had fill'd her apron full, 
Of all the flowers that she could cull. 
The tender leaves serv'd for a bed, 
The scented flowers to rest her head; 

Then down she laid, nor sigh'd nor spake, 
With love her gentle heart did break. 



THE SUN WAS SUNK BENEATH THE HILL. 

Anonymous — but often attributed to John Gay. 

The sun was sunk beneath the hill, 

The western clouds were lin'd with gold. 

The sky was clear, the winds were still, 
The flocks were pent within the fold, 

When from the silence of the grove, 

Poor Damon thus despair'd of love. 



PASTORAL SONGS. 91 

Who seeks to pluck the fragi^ant rose, 

From the bare rock oozy beach ; 
Who, from each barren weed that gi'ows, 

Expects the gi-ape or blushing peach, 
With equal faith may hope to find 
The truth of Love in womankind. 

I have no herds, no fleecy care, 

No fields that wave with golden grain, 

No pastures green, or gardens fair, 
A woman's venal heart to gain; 

Then all in vain my sighs must prove, 

For I, alas ! have nought but love. 

How wretched is the faithful youth, 

Since women's hearts are bought and sold; 

They ask no vows of sacred truth; 

Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold. 

Gold can the frowns of scorn remove, 

But I, alas ! have nought but love. 

To buy the gems of India's coast, 

What wealth, what treasure can suffice? 

Yet India's shore shall never boast 
The living lustre in thine eyes; 

For these the world too cheap would prove; 

But I, alas! have nought but love. 

Then Sylvia! since nor gems, nor ore, 
Can with thy brighter self compare, 

Consider, that I offer more 

Than glittering gems — a soul sincere; 

Let riches meaner beauties move, 

Who pays thy worth, must pay in love! 



92 PASTORAL SONGS. 

THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. 

Charles Hamilton (Lord Binning), died 1733-3. 

Did ever swain a nymph adore 
As 1 ungrateful Nanny do? 

Was ever shepherd's heart so sore— 
Was ever broken heart so true? 

My eyes are swell'd with tears; but she 

Has never shed a tear for me. 

If Nanny call'd, did Robin stay, 

Or linger when she bid me run? 

She only had the word to say, 

And all she asked was quickly done : 

I always thought on her, but she 

Would ne'er bestow a thought on me. 

To let her cows my clover taste, 

Have I not rose by break of day? 

When did her heifers ever fast, 
If Robin in his yard had hay? 

Though to my fields they welcome were, 

I never welcome was to her! 

If Nanny ever lost a sheep, 

I cheerfully did give her two : 

Did not her lambs in safety sleep 

Within my folds in frost and snow? 

Have they not there from cold been free? 

But Nanny still is cold to me. 

Whene'er I climb'd our orchard trees, 
The ripest fruit was kept for Nan; 

Ob, how those hands that drown'd her bees 
Were stung, I'll ne'er forget the pain ! 

Sweet were the combs, as sweet could be; 

But Nanny ne'er look'd sweet on me. 

If Nanny to the well did come, 

'Twas I that did her pitchers fill; 

EuU as they were, I brought them home; 
Her corn I carried to the mill. 

My back did bear her sacks; but she 

Would never bear the sight of me^ 



PASTORAL SONGS. 93 

To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, 

I'm sure they always had the best; 
Within this week her pigeons have 

Eat up a peck of peas at least; 
Her little pigeons kiss, but she 
Wciild never take a kiss from me. 

Must Eobi'n always Nanny woo, 

And Nanny still on Eobin frown? 
Alas, poor wretch! what shall I do, 

If Nanny does not love me soon? 

If no relief to me she'll bring, 
I'll hang me in her apron string. 



DAME BURDEN. 

Anonymous. Date uncertain. 

Dame Durden kept five serving gnls. 

To carry the milking 2)ail; 

She also kept five labouring men 

To use the spade and flail. 

"Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, 

And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 

'Twas John kiss'd Molly, 

And Dick kiss'd Betty, 
And Joe kiss'd Dolly, 

And Jack kiss'd Katty, 
And Dorothy Draggletail, 
And Humphrey with liis flail, 
And Kitty was a charming girl to cany the milking pail. 

Dame Durden in the mom so soon 

She did begin to call : 
To rouse her seiwants, maids and men, 
She then began to bawl. 
Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, 
And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 
'Twas John kiss'd Molly, &c. 

'Twas on the morn of A^alentine, 

The birds began to prate. 
Dame Durden's servants, maids and men, 

They all began to mate. 



94 



PASTORAL SONGS. 



Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, 
And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 
'Twas John kiss'd Molly, 

And Dick kiss'd Betty, 
And Joe kiss'd Dolly, 

And Jack kiss'd Katty, 
And Dorothy Draggletail, 
And Humphrey with his flail, 
And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the mOking pail. 




THE CHOICE OF A RURAL WIFE. 

Anonymous ; about 1740. 
Would you choose a wife for a happy hfe. 

Leave the court, and the country take; 
Where Susan and Doll, and Nancy and Moll, 
Follow Harry and John, whilst harvest goes on, 

And merrily, menily rake. 



PASTORAL SONGS. 95 

Leave the London dames, be it spoke to their shames, 

To lie in their beds till noon; 
Then get up and stretch, then paint too and patch, 
Some widgeon to catch, then look to their watch, 

And wonder they rose up so soon. 

Then coffee and tea, both green and bohea, 

Is serv'd to their tables in plate; 
Where their tattles do run, as swift as the sun, 
Of what they have won, and who is undone, 

By their gaming and sitting up late. 

The lass give me here, though brown as my beer, 

That knows how to govern her house; 
That can milk her cow, or farrow her sow, 
Make butter or cheese, or gather green peas, 

And values fine clothes not a sous. 

This, this is the girl, worth rubies and pearl; 

This is the wife that will make a man rich; 
We gentlemen need no quaUty breed, 
To squander away what taxes would pay; 

In troth, we care for none such. 



JOHNNY AND JENNY. 

Edward Moore, born 1712, died 1757. 

HE. 
Let rakes for pleasure range the town, 
Or misers dote on golden guineas; 
Let plenty smile or fortune frown, 
The sweets of love are mine and Jenny's. 

SHE. 

Let wanton maids indulge desire ; 

How soon the fleeting pleasm-e gone is! 

The joys of virture never tire. 

And such shall still be mine and Johnny's. 

BOTH. 

Together let us sport and play. 

And live in pleasure where no sin is ; 

The priest shall tie the knot to-day, 

And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. 



96 



TASTORAL SONGS. 




HE. 



Let roving swains young hearts invade- 
The pleasure ends in shame and folly; 
So Willy woo'd, and then betray'd 
The poor believing simple Molly. 



SHE. 

So Lucy lov'd, and lightly toy'd, 
And laugh'd at harmless maids who marry, 
But now she finds her shepherd cloy'd, , 
And chides too late her faithless Harry. 

BOTH. 

Together still we'll sport and play 
And live in pleasure where no sin is ; 
The priest shall tie the knot to-day, 
And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. 



PASTORAL SONGS. 97 

HE. 

By cooling streams oiir flocks we'll feed, 
And leave deceit to knaves and ninnies, 
Or fondly stray where Love shall lead, 
And ev'ry joy be mine and Jenny's. 

SHE. 

Let guilt the faithless bosom fright, 
The constant heart is always bonny; 
Content, and peace, and sweet delight. 
And love, shall live with me and Johnny. 

BOTH. 

Together still we'll sport and play, 
And live in pleasm-e where no sin is; 
The priest shall tie the knot to-day, 

And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. 

In ihe year 1753 Mr. Moore commenced the weekly jouma], entitled the " World," 
by Adam Fitzadam, in which he was assisted by Lord Chesterfield and others. This 
periodiccil was afiersvards re-pubhshed in four volumes. 



THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. 

On Eichmond HiU there hves a lass 
More bright than May-day mom, 

"Whose chai-ms aU other maids siu-pass— 
A rose without a thom. 

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, 
Has won my right good-will; 

I'd crowns resign to call her mine, 
Sweet lass of Eichmond HiU. 

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, 
And wanton thro' the gi'ove. 

Oh, whisper to my chaiming fair, 
I die for her I love. 

How happy will the shepherd be 
Who caUs this nymph his owr ! 
F 2 



98 



PASTORAL SONGS. 

Oh! may her choice be fix'd on me, 
Mine 's fix'd on her alone. 



Mr. Upton who wrote the above song — his Christian name has not descended to 
posterity — wrote many others for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards 
the close of the last century. This song was long popularly ascribed to the Prince of 
Wales, aftenvards George IV. 




THE FAKMEK'S SON. 

From tlae " Myrtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library," 1800. 

Good people give attention, while I do sing in praise 

Of the happy situation we were in, in foi-mer days ; 

When my father kept a farm, and my mother milked her cow, 

How happily we lived then to what we do now. 

When my mother she was knitting, my sister she would spin, 
And by their good industry they kept us neat and clean; 
I rose up in the morning, with my father went to plough, 
How happily we lived then to what we do now. 



PASTORAL SON&S. 99 

My brotlier gave assistance in tending of the sheep, 
When tir'd with our labour, how contented we cotild sleep; 
Then early in the morning we again set out to plough, 
How happily we hved then to what we do now. 

Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn, 
And our neighbours we suppUed with a quantity of corn, 
For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then I vow, 
How happily we hred then to what we do now. 

I never knew at that tmie, go search the country roimd, 
That butter ever sold for more than fourpence per pound, 
And a quart of new milk for a penny, from the cow, 
How happily we Uved then to what we do now. 

How merry would the farmers then sing along the road, 
VThen wheat was sold at mai'ket for five pounds a load; 
They'd di'op into an ale-house, and drink " God speed" the plough, 
How happily we lived then to what we do now. 

A blessing to the squu-e, for he gave us great content, 
And well he entertained us, when my father paid his rent, 




100 PASTORAL SONaS. 

With flaggons of good ale he'd drink, " Farmer, speed the plough," 
How happily we lived then to what we do now. 

At length the squire died, Sir, ! bless his ancient pate, 
Another fiU'd with pride came as heir to the estate, 
He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow. 
Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now. 

May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart. 
The poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart; 
To take the larger farms, and divide them into ten. 
Til at we may live as happy now as we did then. 



THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG. 
J. Hughes. 
Good neighbours, since you've knock'd me down, 
I'll sing you a song of songs the crown ; 
For it shall be to the fair renown 

Of a race that yields to no man : 
When order first on earth began, 
Each king was then a husbandman; 
He honour'd the plough. 
And the barley-mow, 
Maintained his court from ofi" his farm. 
And kept all round him tight and warm, 
Like a right down Suffolk yeoman. 

The plough was then a nation's boast, 
And the pride of those who rul'd the roast ; 
And so felt one well worth a host — 

A brave and a noble Roman. 
Some here may call to mind his name, 
But the thing is true, and it's all the same ; 
In war and debate 
He sav'd the state, 
He made the haughty foe to bow. 
And when all was done, went back to plough. 

Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman. 

Said Horace, " I'm grown sick of court. 
And Caesar's crack champagne and port; 
To sing and pun for great folks sport 
Is the life of a raree showman; 



PASTORAL SONGS. 101 

I long, 'mid all the fun of Kome, 

To see how my farm goes on at home." 

Now his parts were renown'd 

The world around, 
But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops, 
And yet trust me if he grew such crops 
As a thriving Suffolk yeoman. 

Good freeholders, and stout were they 
Who form'd our warlike realm's array. 
When Europe trembled many a day 

At the name of an English bowman ; 
The arm that drew the gallant bow 
Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow; 
They lov'd the tough yew, 
And the spot where it gi'ew, 
For that was near our good old church ; 
" And we'll never leave her in the lurch," 

Says my loyal Suffolk yeoman. 

When George the Third adorn 'd our throne, 
His manly ways were just our own; 
Then Britons stood in arms alone, 

And defied each foreign foeman. 
The good old king, he fear'd his God, 
But he fear'd no man on earth who trod ; 
He lov'd his farm, 
And he found a charm 
In every useful Stirling art, 
And he wore the home-spun coat and heart 

Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. 

Since then the brave, the wise, and gi*eat, 
Have been plain folks of our estate, 
We claim a pride of ancient date, 

A pride that will injui-e no man; 
Though Scotch philosophers and Jews 
Woiild starve us out, and our name abuse, 
We'll stand by the king. 
The church, and each thing 
That our loyal fathers honour'd most; 
And such shall be the pride and boast 

Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. 



102 PASTORAL SONGS. 

A WISH. 

Samuel Eogers. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

/■ The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 

Shall twitter near her clay-built nest; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 

And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivy'd porch shall spiing, 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees. 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 



THE. PLOUGHSHAEE OF OLD ENGLAND. 

Eliza Cook. 

The sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle! 

The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while ; 

But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' haUs, 

And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals. 

We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, 

To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the safiron morn, 

We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land. 

The ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band! 

The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told, 
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold : 
Its metal is imsuUied, no blood-stain lingers there : 
God speed it well; and let it thrive unshackled everywhere. 
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust; 
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and nist. 
Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land. 
The ploughshare of Old England, and the stm-dy peasant band ! 




\ HE Bacchanalian and Convivial Songs 
of the English people are not of a high 
order of merit. The most elegant of 
them are translations, or paraphrases, of 
the Odes of Anacreon, the only author 
J^^ who has eminently succeeded in wreath- 
ing the flowers of fancy aroimd the 
drinking-cup, or in rendering even toler- 
able, to the taste of a refined and civilized 
people, the indulgence of intoxication. 
But in borrowing from Anacreon, the 



104 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

English song-writers, with the exception of Thomas Moore, who 
added new graces even to Anacreon, too often forgot, or were 
unable to borrow his elegance and wit. The result is, that 
the greater portion of English drinking-songs would be more 
appropriate to the worship of Silenus than of Bacchus. " Plumpy 
Bacchus with pink eyne," as depicted by Shakspeare, has been 
the divinity of song-writers, not one of whom seems to have had 
any idea of the intellectual Dionysus of the Greeks. Bacchus 
has been degraded by the moderns into a kind of superhuman 
FalstafF — a sensual monster — abusing the gifts of heaven instead 
of using them. 

Some of the early drinking-songs are valuable for preserving 
traits of national manners, which might otherwise have been lost. 
Bishop Still's song of " Good Ale" is one of this class; and a 
few others are entitled to the same praise. But in the age suc- 
ceeding that of Elizabeth — when the simple and the natural in 
poetry of all kinds began to decay — the convivial songs, like those 
in celebration of the passion of love, partook largely of the my- 
thological character ; and for more than two centuries, the vulgar- 
ized Bacchus, who sits astride upon a barrel on public-house signs, 
was the deity of English topers, and presided over their feasts. 
The " Muses " and the " Graces " were appealed to, to lend their 
aid; and "Care," an impersonation unknown to the ancients, 
was evermore called upon to let herself be drowned in the bowl. 
It was not till near the end of the eighteenth century that the 
song-worship of Bacchus began to decline ; and when mythology 
went out of fashion in love songs, it was to a great extent driven 
from the drinking-songs also. Baron Dawson, the author of a 
lyric, entitled "Squire Jones," published in the seventeenth cen- 
tury, though among the first to ridicule the constant mythological 
allusions of the versifiers, fell into the same fault himself when he 
spoke of drinking : 

" Ye poets who write. 
And brag of your drinking famed HeUcon's bi'ook, 

Though all ye get by 't 

Is a dinner ofttunes, 

In reward for your rhymes ; 
With Humphrey the Duke, 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 105 

Learn Bacchus to follow, 

And quit your Apollo ; 
Forsake all tlie muses — those senseless old crones, 

Our jingling of glasses 

Your rhyming surpasses, 
When crovmed with good claret and humpers, Sqmre Jones !" 

But the complaint ■which we feel hound to reiterate against the 
vulgarity of tone, and the unworthiness of the sentiments in our 
convivial songs is not a new one. " There is nothing," says Hugh 
Kelly, in the " Babhler " (No. 30), quoted in the introduction to 
the Rev. H. Plumptre's Collection of Songs (1805), "at which I 
am more offended than the unpardonable vein of ignorance and 
brutality so generally introduced in our drinking-songs ; nor any- 
thing, in my opinion, which throws a greater reflection upon the 
understanding of a sensible society. If we examine the principal 
number of these pretty compositions, we shall find that absolute 
intoxication is recommended as the highest felicity in the world, 
and receive the most positive assurances of being upon an equality 
with angels, the very moment we sink ourselves into a situation 
considerably lower than men. 

" It has been justly observed, that every nation, in proportion 
as it is civilized, has abolished intemperance in wine, and conse- 
quently must be barbarous in proportion as it is addicted to excess . 
The remark, I am rather apprehensive, will be found no very 
great compliment to the people of this kingdom. We are apt to 
place good fellowship in riot, and have but too natural a 
promptitude in imagining that the happiness of an evening is 
promoted by an extravagant circulation of the glass ; hence are our 
songs of festivity (as I have already taken notice) fraught with 
continual encomiums on the pleasures of intoxication, and the 
whole tribe of bacchanalian lyrics perpetually telling us how 
wonderfully sensible it is to destroy our senses, and how nothing 
can be more rational in a human creature than to driak till he 
has not left himself a single glimmer of reason at all. 

" But if, abstracted from the brutal intention of our drinking- 
songs in general, we should come to consider their merit as 
literary performances, how very few of them should we find worth 
a station on a cobbler's stall, or deserving the attention of an 



106 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

auditory at Billingsgate! The best are but so many despicable 
strings of unmeaning puns, and ill-imagined conceits, and betray 
not more the ignorance of their encouragers, than the barrenness 
of their authors. Let me only ask the warmest advocate for this 
species of composition what, upon a cool reflection, he thinks of 
the following song : — 

* By the gaily circhng glass 

We can see how minutes pass 

By the hollow cask we're told 

How the waning night grows old; 

Soon, too soon, the busy day 

Calls us from our sports away. 

What have we with day to do? 

Sons of Care 'twas made for you.' 
" The foregoing little song, though one of the least offensive in 
the whole round of abon vivant collection, has neither thought nor 
expression to recommend it. and can, when sung, be termed no 
more than an agreeable piece of impertinence, calculated to 
supply a want of understanding in a company. 1 forbear to 
mention ' The Big-bellied Bottle,' and a variety of similar produc- 
tions, which are universally known, and deserve to be universally 



The most notable attempt to reform the character of English 
drinking-songs was made by the Captain Morris, already mentioned, 
a gentleman whose good voice, pleasing manners, and readiness 
to sing for the amusement of the brilliant society in which he 
moved, made him a great favourite in the days of the Eegency. 
Although he did not banish Bacchus altogether from his effusions, 
he strove to impart a more modern and natural, as well as more 
gentlemanly tone, to the drink-lyrics which he wrote and sung ; 
but his compositions of this class possessed no other merit. 
They were deficient in strength, originality, and wit, and were 
quite worthy, in most respects, of being attributed to "the Lady 
of Quality" — ^if that eminent "Myth" could be supposed to 
have so far forgotten herself as to have written for the mess-table — 
" Come sip thy glass, my rosy lass, 

'Twill prove a bless 'd infusion, 
'Twill witch thy sight with wild delight, 

And brighten Love's illusion. 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 107 

'Twill round thee ope a world of Hope, 

A heaven of sweet emotion, 
Then let's not blight the sure delight 

For want of true devotion," 

If such stanzas as these were more decorous, they were 
certainly not so vigorous, or by any means so appropriate for their 
purpose as the roystering ditties which they were intended to 
supersede, and it was not until Kichard Brinsley Sheridan 
first, and Thomas Moore afterwards, lent their genius to 
to celebrate the glories of the wine-cup, that poetry was in any 
way concerned in the drinking-songs of the English nation. An 
exception must be made in favour of some of the Sea Songs 
of the Dibdins, in which the daring conviviality of the English 
sailor is admirably represented. The taste for bacchanalian 
songs, like the practice of bacchanalian excess, has long been on 
the decline. If an apology be necessary for presenting the 
reader with so many compositions of this class, it must be found 
in the fact that a collection of English songs would be incomplete 
without them — and that as illustrative not only of the history of 
manners, but of the history of literature, it was necessary to include 
a few specimens of them. 




108 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 




GOOD ALE. 

By John Still, Bishop of Bath and Wells, bom 1542, died 1607. 

I CANNOT eat but little meat, 

My stomach is not good; 
But sure, I think that I can drink 

With any that wears a hood. 
Tho' I go hare, take ye no care, 

I am nothing a cold, 
I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, go bare, 

Both foot and hand go cold; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it be new or old. 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast. 

And a crab laid in the fire; 
A little bread shall do me stead, 

Much bread I don't desire. 
No frost, no snow, no wind I trow 

Can hurt me if I wold, 
I am so wrapt, and thoroughly lapt 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, go bare. 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale enoijigh 
Whether it be new or old. 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 109 

And Tib, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek, 
FuU oft drinks she, till you may see 

The tears run down her cheek; 
Then doth she troul to me the bowl, 

Even as a maltworm should. 
And saith " Sweetheart, I take my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 
Back and side go bare, go bare, 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 



Now let them drink till they nod and wink. 

Even as good fellows should do; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to; 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, 

Or have them lustily troul'd, 
God save the lives of them and their wives, 

Whether they be young or old. 
Back and side go bare, go bare. 

Both foot and hand go cold; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 

The comedy of " Gammer Gurton's Needle," in wliich this song appears, was first 
acted in 1666, but not printed until 1575. " It is believed to have been, ' says Mr. Ellis, 
in his " Specimens of Ancient English Poetry," " the earhest English di-ama that exhibited 
any approaches to regular comedy." 



COME, THOU MONAKCH OF THE VINE. 

From " Antony and Cleopatra," by William Shakspeare. 

Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne, 
In thy vats our cares be drowned, 
With thy grapes our hans be crowned 
Cup us till the world go round. 



110 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

THE THIRSTY EARTH. 

Abraham Cowley. 

The thirsty earth drinks up the rain, 
And thirsts, and gapes for drink again ; 
The plants suck in the earth, and are 
With constant drinking fresh and fair. 

The sea itself (which one would think 
Should have but httle need of drink) 
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, 
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. 

The busy sun (and one would guess 
By's drunken liery face no less) 
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done, ■ 
The moon and stars drink up the sun. 

They drink and dance by their own light, 
They drink and revel all the night; 
Nothing in nature's sober found, 
But an eternal health goes round. 

Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, 
Fill all the glasses here ; for why 
Should every creature drink but I ? 
Why, man of morals, tell me why ! 

Freely translated from Anacreon. 



THE LEATHER BOTTEL. 

From " The Antidote to Melancholy," 1682. 

'TwAS God above that made all things, 
The heaven's, the earth, and all therein; 
The ships that on the sea do swim. 
To guard from foes, that none come in; 
And let them all do what they can, 
'Tis but for one end — the use of man. 
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, 
That first found out the leather bott^l. 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. Ill 

Now what do you say to these cans of wood? 
Oh no, in faith they cannot be good; 
For if the bearer fall by the way, 
Why on the ground his liquor doth lay: 
But had it been in a leather bottel, 
Although he had fallen all had been well. 
So T wish in heav'n his soul may dwell 
That first found out the leather bottel. 



Then what do you say to these glasses fine? 
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; 
For if you chance to touch the brim, 
Down falls the liquor and all therein; 
But had it been in a leather bottel, 
And the stopple in, all had been well. 
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell 
That first found out the leather bottel. 



Then what do you say to these black-pots three? 

If a man and his wife should not agree. 

Why they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill: 

In a leather bottel they may tug their fill, 

And pull away till their hearts do ache, 

And yet their liquor no harm can take. 

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, 

That first found out the leather bottel. 



Then what do you say to these flagons fine? 
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; 
For when a lord is about to dine, 
And sends them to be filled with wine, 
The man with the flagon doth run away, 
Because it is silver most gallant and gay. 
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell 
That first found out the leather bottel. 

A leather bottel we know is good 
Far better than glasses or cans of wood, 
For when a man's at work in the field, 
Yom* glasses and pots no comfort wiU yield; 



112 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

But a good leather bottel standing by, 
Will raise his spirits, whenever he's dry. 
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, 
That first found out the leather bottel. 




At noon the haymakers sit them down, 
To drink from their bottels of ale nut-bro^vn; 
In summer too, when the weather is warm, 
A good bottel full will do them no harm. 
Then the lads and the lasses begin to tattle. 
But what would they do without this bottel? 
So I wish in heaVn his soul may dwell, 
That first found out the leather bottel. 



There's never a Lord, an Earl, or Knight, 
But in this bottel doth take dehght; 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 113 

For when he's hunting of the deer, 
He oft doth wish for a bottel of beer. 
Likewise the man that works in the wood, 
A bottel of beer will oft do him good. 
So I wish to heav'n his soul may dwell. 
That first found out the leather bottel. 

And when the bottel at last gi-ows old, 

And will good liquor no longer hold. 

Out of the side you may make a clout, 

To mend your shoes when they're worn out; 

Or take and hang it up on a pin, 

'Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in. 

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell, 

That first found out tlie leather bottel. 



BEGONE, DULL CAKE. 

Begone, dull care, I prythee begone from me, 
Begone, dull care, thou and I shall never agree; 
Long time thou hast been tarrying here, 

And fain thou wouldst me kill; 
But i'faith, dull care. 

Thou never shalt have thy will. 

Too much care will make a young man gray; 
And too much care will tm-n an old man to clay. 

My wife shall dance, and I will sing, 

So menily pass the day; 
Eor I hold it still the wisest thing 

To drive dull care away. 

This popular ditty is as old as the year 1687, when it first appeared in "Play ford's 
Musical Companion." 



DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. 

Temp, Queen Anne. Anonymous. 

Here's a health to the Queen, and a lasting peace, 
To faction an end, to wealth increase; 
Come, let's drink it while we have breath. 
For there's no drinking after death. 
And he that will this health deny, 
Down among the dead men let him lie. 
G 2 



114 CONVIVIAL SOXGS. 

Let charming beauty's health go round, 
In whom celestial joys are found, 
And may confusion still pursue 
The senseless woman-hating crew, 
And they that woman's health deny, 
Down among the dead men let them lie. 

In making Bacchus' joy, I'll roll, 
Deny no pleasure to my soul; 
Let Bacchus' health round briskly move, 
For Bacchus is a fiiend to Love. 
And he that will this health deny, 
Down among the dead men let him lie. 

May love and wine their rights maintain, 
And their united pleasures reign, 
While Bacchus' treasure crowns the board, 
We'll sing the joys that both afford; 
And they that wont with us comply, 
Down among the dead men let him lie. 



HOW STANDS THE GLASS ABOUND? 

Anonymous. From a half sheet song, with the music, printed about the year 1710. 

How Stands the glass around? 
For shame, ye take no care, my boys! 

How stands the glass around? 

Let mirth and wine abound! 

The trumpets sound : 
The colours flying are, my boys, 

To fight, kill, or wound: 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fare, my boys. 

On the cold ground. 

Why, soldiers, why 
Should we be melancholy, boys! 
Why, soldiers, why? 
Whose business 'tis to die? 
What sighing? fie! 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 115 

Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 

'Tis he, you, or I. 

Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
We're always bound to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly. 

'Tis but in vain, 
^1 mean not to upbraid you, boys) 

'Tis but in vain 

For soldiers to complain; 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him that made us, boys, 

We're free from pain; . 

But should we remain, 
A bottle and kind landlady 

Cures all again. 

This is commonly called General Wolfe's song, and is said to have been sung by him 
on the night before the battle of Quebec. 



COME NOW ALL YE SOCIAL POWEKS. 

Altered and enlarged from the Finale of Bickerstaffe's " School of Fathers. 

Come now all ye social powers, 

Shed your influence o'er us; 
Crown with joy the present hours, 

Enliven those before us: 
Bring the flask, the music bring, 

Joy shall quickly find us; 
Sport and dance, and laugh, and sing, 

And cast dull care behind us. 

Love, thy godhead I adore, 

Source of generous passion; 
Nor will we ever bow before 

Those idols, Wealth and Fashion. 
Bring the flask, &c. 

Why the plague should we be sad, 
Whilst on earth we moulder? 

Rich or poor, or grave or mad. 
We every day grow older. 

Bring the flask, &c. 



116 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

Friendship! oh, thy smile's divine! 

Bright in all its features; 
What hui friendship, love, and wine, 

Can make us happy creatures. 
Bring the flask, &c. 

Since the time will pass away 
Spite of all our sorrow, 

Let's be blithe and gay to-day, 
And never mind to-morrow. 

Bring the flask, &c. 



WHEN I DKAIN THE KOSY BOWL. 

From the works of Anacreon, Sappho, &c., translated by the Rev. Francis Fawkes. 
8vo. London: 1761. 

When I drain the rosy bowl, 
Joy exhilarates the soul; 
To the Nine I raise my song 
Ever fair, and ever young. 
When full cups my cares expel, 
Sober counsel,, then farewell! 
Let the winds that murmur, sweep 
All my sorrows to the deep. 

When I diink dull time away. 
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay. 
Leads me to delightful bowers, 
Full of fragrance, full of flowers. 
When I quafi" the sparkling wine, 
And my locks with roses twine; 
Then I praise life's rural scene. 
Sweet, sequester'd, and serene. 

When I drink the bowl profound, 
(Richest fragrance flowing round) 
And some lovely nymph detain, 
Venus then inspires the strain. 
When from goblets deep and wide, 
I exhaust the genrous tide, 
All my soul unbends — I play 
Gamesome with the young and gay. 



CONYIVIAL SONGS. 117 

BUSY, CUEIOUS, THIKSTY FLY. 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly, 
Drink with me, and drmk as I ; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Could 'st thou sip and sijj it up. 
Make the most of life you may. 
Life is short, and wears away. 

Both alike are mine and thine, 
Hastening quick to their decline; 
Thine 's a summer, mine no more, 
Though repeated to threescore; 
Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
Will appear as short as one. 

Yet this difference we may see, 
/ 'Twixt the hfe of man and thee : 

Thou art for this life alone, 
Man seeks another when 'tis gone ; 
And though allow'd its joys to share, 
'Tis vntue here, hopes pleasure there. 

The old sheet copies of this ballad say, " Made extempore by a gentleman, occasioned 
by a fly diinking out of his cup of ale." The gentleman was Vmcent Bourne, and the 
date of the prodf ction 1744. It was set to music as a duet for two voices by Dr. Greene, 
The last verse in the above copy was added by the Rev. J. Plumtree.j 



WITH AN HONEST OLD FRIEND. 
Henry Cabey. 
With an honest old friend, and a merry old song, 
And a flash of old Port let me sit the night long; 
And laugh at the maUce of those who repine. 
That they must swig porter, while I can di-ink wine. 

I envy no mortal tho' ever so great, 
Nor scorn I a wi-etch for his lowly estate; 
But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse. 
Is poorness of spuit, not j)oorness of pm'se. 

Then dare to he generous, dauntless, and gay, 
Let's merrily pass hfe's remainder away; 
Upheld by oui- friends, we our foes may despise. 
For the more we are envj^'d the higher we rise. 



118 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

WHAT IS WAR AND ALL ITS JOYS? 

Thomas Chatteston, bom 1752, died 1770. 

What is war and all its joys? 
Useless mischief, empty noise ; 
What are arms and trophies won? 
Spangles glittering in the sun. 
Rosy Bacchus, give me wine, 
Happiness is only thine. 

What is love without the bowl? 
'Tis a languor of the soul ; 
Crown'd with ivy, Venus charms, 
Ivy courts me to her arms. 
Bacchus, give me love and wine, 
Happiness is only thine. 



A POT OF PORTER, HO ! 

From the "Myrtle aud the Vine," a Complete Vocal Library, vol. ii. a.d. 1800. 

When to Old England I come home, 

Eal lal, fal lal la! 
When joy to see the tankard foam. 
Eal lal, fal lal la ! 
When treading London's well-known ground. 

If e'er I feel my spirits tire, 
I haul my sail, look up around. 

In search of Whitbread 's best entire. 
I spy the name of Calvert, 
Of Curtis, Cox, and Co. 
I give a cheer and bawl for't, 
"A pot of porter, ho!" 
When to Old England I come home. 
What joy to see the tankard foam ! 
With heart so light, and frolic high, 
I drink it off to Liberty ! 

Where wine or water can be found, 
Eal lal, fal lal la ! 

I've travell'd far the world around, 
Eal lal, fal lal la! 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 119 

Again I hope before I die, 
Of England's can the taste to try; 
For, many a league I'd go about, 
To take a drauglit of OifforcVs stout: 
I spy the name of Trueman, 

Of Maddox, Meux, and Co. 
The sight makes me a new man, 
A pot of porter, ho ! 

Many'of the once celebrated firms of brewers recorded in this song, brew no more for 
the British public, and their names have scarcely any other record. Some of them still 
remain, however, with increased and increasing popularity. 



ENGLISH ALE. 

From the "Myrtle and the Vine," -vol. ii., a.d. 1800. 

D'ye mmd me? I once was a sailor, 

And in different countries I've been, 
If I lie may I go for a tailor ! 

But a thousand fine sights I have seen: 
I've been cramm'd with good things like a wallet, 

And I've guzzled more drink than a whale. 
But the very best stuff to my palate, 

Is a glass of your EngHsli good ale. 

Your doctors may boast of their lotions. 

And ladies may talk of their tea; 
But I envy them none of their potions, 

A glass of good stingo for me! 
The doctor may sneer if he pleases, 

But my recipe never will fail, 
For the physic that cures all diseases, 

Is a bumper of good English ale. 

When my trade was upon the salt ocean,. 

Why there I had plenty of grog, 
And I lik'd it, because I'd a notion 

It set one's good spirits agog; 
But since upon land I've been steering, 

Experience has altered my tale, 
For nothing on earth is so cheering 

As a bumper of English good ale. 



120 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN. 

R. B. Sheeidan. From the Comedy of " The School for Scandal." 

Here's to the maiden of "bashful fifteen, 
Now to the widow of fifty ; 
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, 
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty; 

Let the toast pass, 

Drink to the lass, 

I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. 

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, 
Now to the damsel with none, sir; 
Here's to the girl with a pair of hlue eyes, 
And now to the nymph with hut one, sir : 
Let the toast pass, &c. 

Here's to the maid with a hosom of snow. 
Now to her that's as hrown as a berry; 
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, 
And now to the damsel that's merry: 
Let the toast pass, &c. 

For let her he clumsy, or let her he slim, 
Young or ancient, I care not a feather; 
So fill up a bumper, nay fill to the brim, 
And let us e'en toast 'em together: 
Let the toast pass, &c. 



THIS BOTTLE'S THE SUN OF OUR TABLE. 

R. B. Sheridan, From the Comic Opera of "The Duenna." 

This bottle's the sun of our table, 

His beams are rosy wine; 
We planets that are not able 

Without his help to shine. 

Let mirth and glee abound! 
You'U soon grow bright 
With borrow'd light, 
And shine as he goes round. 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 121 

THE BROWN JUa. 

' From the Opera of " The Poor Soldier." John 0. Keefe. 

Deak Tom, this "brown jug tliat now foams witli mild ale 
(Out of which I now di'iiik to sweet Nan of the vale), 
Was once Tohy Filpot, a thii'sty old soul 
As e'er crack'd a hottle, or fathom'd a bowl. 
In boozing ahout 'twas his pride to excel, 
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. 

It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease 
In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you please, 
With a fiiend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, 
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, 
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut. 
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. 

His body, when long in the gi-ound it had lain, 

And Time into clay had resolved it again, 

A potter found out in its covert so snug, 

And with part of fat Toby he form'd tliis brown jug. 

Now, sacred to friendship, to nui'th and mild ale; 

So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale. 



THE WINDS WHISTLE COLD. 

From the Opera of " Guy Mannering." Daniel Tekey, born 1780, died 1828. 

The winds whistle cold. 

And the stars ghmmer red. 
The flocks ai-e in fold, 

And the cattle in shed. 
When the hoar frost was chiU 
Upon moorland and Inll, 

And was fr-inging the forest bough, 
Our fathers would ti'oul 
The bonny brown bowl, 

And so will we do now. 

Jolly hearts! 
And so win we do now. 



122 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 



Gaffer Winter may seize 

Upon milk in the pail; 
'Twill be long ere he freeze 

The bold brandy and ale; 
For our fathers so bold, 
They laugh 'd at the cold, 

When Boreas, was bending his brow; 
For they quaff'd mighty ale, 
And they told a blythe tale. 

And so will we do now, 

Jolly hearts ! 
And so will we do now. 



DEOWN IT IN THE BOWL. 

Anonymous. 

The glasses sparkle on the board. 

The wine is ruby bright, 
The reign of pleasure is restored, 

Of ease and fond delight. 
The day is gone, the night's our own, 

Then let us feast the soul; 
If any care or pain remain, 

Why, drown it in the bowl. 

This world, they say, 's a world of woe, 

But that I do deny; 
Can sorrow from the goblet flow? — 

Or pain from beauty's eye ! 
The wise are fools with all their rules, 

When they would joys control : 
If life's a pain, I say again, 

Let's drown it in the bowl. 

That time flies fast, the poet sings; 

Then surely it is wise 
In rosy wine to dip his wings, 

And seize him as he flies. 
This night is ours; then strew with flowers 

The moments as they roll: „ 
If any care or pain remain, 

Why drown it in the bowl.] 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 12 'J 



MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FEIEND, NOR A BOTTLE TO 
GIVE HIM. 

Since the first dawn of reason tliat beam'd on my mind 

And taught me how favom-ed by fortune my lot, 
To share that good fortune, I stiU was inclined, 

And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not. 
'Tie a maxim entitled to ev'ry one's praise. 

When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him, 
And my motto, the' simple, means more than it says, 

" May we ne'er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.' 

The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent, 

Or by poverty bow'd, tho' of evils the least, 
The smiles of a friend may mvite to content, 

And we aU know content is an excellent feast; 
'Tis a maxim entitled to ev'ry one's praise. 

When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him, 
And my motto, tho' simple, means more than it says, 

" May we ne'er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him." 



FRIEND OF MY SOUL. 

Thomas Moore. 

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 

'Twill chase that pensive tear; 
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, 

But, ah! 'tis more sincere. 
Like her delusive beam, 

'Twill steal away thy mind; 
But, truer than love's di-eam, 

It leaves no sting behind. 

Come, tmne the wreath, thy brows to shade. 

These flow'rs were cuU'd at noon; 
Like woman's love the rose wiU fade. 

But, ah ! not half so soon. 
For though the flow'rs decay'd. 

Its fragi-ance is not o'er; 
But once when love's beti'ay'd. 

Its sweet life blooms no more. 



124 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 

Lord Byron. 

Fill the goblet again! for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; 

Let us drink! who would not? since, through life's varied round, 

In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply, 

I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye, 

I have loved! who has not? but what heart can declare 

That pleasure existed whUe passion was there? 

In the days of my youth — when the heart's in its spring 
And dreams that affection can never take wing — 
I had friends! who has not? but what tongue will avow, 
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam, thou never canst change; 
Thou grow'st old, who does not? but on earth what appears. 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 

Yet, if blest to the utmost that love can bestow. 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
We are jealous! who's not? thou hast no such alloy. 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

When the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; 
There we find, do we not ? in the flow of the soul, 
That truth as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced ov6r Mirth, 
Hope was left, was she not? but the goblet we kiss. 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own, 
We must die! who must not? May our sins be forgiven, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven. 



CONYIVIAL SONGS. 125 

THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY. 

Bare? Coenwall. 

Sing! — Who sings 

To her who weareth a hundred rings? 
Ah! who is this lady fine? 
The Vine, boys, the Vine! 
The mother of mighty Wine. 
A roameris she 
O'er wall and tree, 
And sometimes very good company. 

Drink! — Who drinks 
To her who blusheth and never thinks? 
Ah I who is this maid of thine ? 
The Grape, boys, the Grape ! 
0, never let her escape 
Until she be turned to Wine ! 
For better is she 
Than Yine can be, 
And very, very good company! 

Dream! — Who dreams 

Of the God that governs a thousand streams ? 
Ah! who is this Spirit fine? 
'Tis Wine, boys, 'tis Wine! 
God Bacchus, a friend of mine, 
0, better is he 
Than Grape or tree. 
And the best of all good company. 



A SONG AFTER A TOAST. 

C. Mac KAY. From " Legends of the Isles," 1845% 

If he, to whom this toast we diink, 

Has brought the needy to his door; 
Or raised the wretch from ruin's brink 

From the abundance of his store ; 
If he has sooth'd the moiu'ner's woe. 

Or help'd young merit into fame. 
This night our cups shall overflow 

In honom- of his name. 



126 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 



If he be poor, and yet has striven 

To ease the load of human care; 
If to the famish'd he has given 

One loaf that it was hard to share ; 
If, in his poverty erect, 

He never did a deed of shame, 
Fill high! we'll drain in deep respect 

A bumper to his name. 

But rich or poor, if still his plan 

Has been to play an honest part ; 
If he ne'er failed his word to man. 

Or broke a trusting woman's heart; 
If emulation fire his soul 

To snatch the meed of virtuous fame 
Fill high! we'll drain a flowing bowl 

In honour of his name. 



THE MAHOGANY TEEE. 



W. M. Thackeray. 



Cheistmas is here; 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill: 
Little care we. 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Commoner greens, 
Ivy and oaks, 
Poets, in jokes, 
Sing, do ye see : 
Good fellows' shins 
Here, boys, are found, 
Twisting around 
The Mahogany Tree. 



Once on the boughs, 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom; 
Night-birds are we : 
Here we carouse, 
Singing, like them, 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport. 
Boys as we sit; 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on, 
Eound the old tree. 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 



127 



Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true, 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate: 
Let the dog wait; 
Happy we'll be! 
Drink every one; 
Pile up the coals, 
Fill the red howls, 
Eound the old tree ! 



Drain we the cup. — 
Friend, art afraid? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Bed Sea. 
Mantle it up; 
Empty it yet; 
Let us forget, 
Eound the old tree. 

Sorrows begone ! 
Life and its ills, 
Duns and their bills. 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn, 
Blue-devil sprite. 
Leave us to-night, 
Eound the old tree. 



THE DEEAM OF THE EEVELLEE. 



Charles Mackay. 

Around the board the guests were met, the'lights above them beaming, 
And in their cu^JS, replenish 'd oft, the ruddy wine was streaming; 
Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes were bright, their hearts with 

pleasure bounded, 
The song was sung, the toast was given, and loud the revel sounded. 
I drained a goblet with the rest, and cried, "Away with sorrow! 
Let us be hai3py for to-day — what care we for the morrow ?" 
But as I spoke, my sight grew dim, and slumber deep came o'er me. 
And 'mid the whirl of mingling tongmes, this vision passed before me. 

Methought I saw a demon rise : he held a mighty bicker. 
Whose burnished sides ran brimming o'er with floods of burning liquor, 
Around him pressed a clamorous crowd, to taste this liquor greedy, 
But chiefly came the poor and sad, the suffering and the needy; 
All those oppress'd by grief or debt, the dissolute, the lazy. 
Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths, and palsied women crazy; 
"Give, give!" they cried, "give, give us drink, to di-own all thought 

of sorrow; 
If we are happy for to-day, we care not for to-moiTOw! 



128 CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

The first drop warmed their shivering skins, and drove away their sadness ; 
The second lit their sunken eyes, and filled their souls with gladness ; 
The third drop made them shout and roar, and play each furious antic ; 
The fourth drop boiled their very blood; and the fifth drop drove 

. them frantic: — 
" Drink ! " said the demon, " drink your fill ! drink of these waters mellow ! 
They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull, and turn your white skins 

yellow ; 
They'll fill your homes with care and grief, and clothe your backs 

with tatters; 
They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts; but never mind — what matters? 

Though virtue sink, and reason fail, and social ties dissever, 
I'll be your friend in hour of need, and find you homes for ever; 
For I have built three mansions high, three strong and goodly houses, 
To lodge at last each jolly soul, who all his life carouses; 
The first it is a spacious house, to all but sots appalling. 
Where, by the parish boimty fed, vile, in the sunshine crawling. 
The worn-out drunkard ends his days, and eats the dole of others, 
A plague and burthen to himself, an eye-sore to his brothers. 

The second is a lazar house, rank, fetid, and unholy; 
Where, smitten by diseases foul, and hopeless melancholy. 
The victims of potations deep pine on a couch of sadness. 
Some calling death to end their pain, and others wrought to madness ; 
The third and last is black and high, the abode of guilt and anguish, 
And full of dungeons deep and fast, where death-doomed felons languish ; 
So drain the cup and drain again, one of my goodly houses. 
Shall lodge at last each jolly soul who to the dregs carouses!" 

But well he knew — that demon old — how vain was all his preaching. 
The ragged crew that round him flocked were heedless of his teaching; 
Even as they heard his fearful words, they cried, with fearful laughter, 
"Out on the fool who mars to-day with thoughts of an hereafter! 
We care not for thy houses three ; we live but for the present ; 
And merry will we make it yet and quaff our bumpers pleasant." 
Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak, and lifting high his bicker, 
"Body and soul are mine," said he ; " I'll have them both for liquor." 




MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

AMONG all nations in which poetry has been cultivated, song 
writers have ever found abundance of exercise in their vocation 
in adapting to music the expression of moral sentiment, or in 
making the satire of manners more agreeable, more popular, and 
more permanently useful, by the union of poetry and music. 
Some of the most beautiful songs in the English language 
belong to this class, and there has been no song- writer worthy of 
the name who has not occasionally forsaken the amatory, con- 
vivial, or patriotic departments of his art — long erroneously 
considered by false critics to be the only legitimate spheres of 
song — to praise \drtue, to condemn vice, to hold folly up to 
ridicule, and to depict the good or ill manners of society. The 
songs of this description are exceedingly numerous, and are of 
every degree of merit and demerit, ranging from the broadest 
comedy to the seriousness of the sermon, and even of the 
hymn. The vanity of human life; the instability of greatness; 

n 2 



130 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

the charms of friendship ; the pleasures of temperance ; the 
blessings of a contented mind ; the consolations of old age, and a 
thousand similar topics, are true sources of inspiration for the 
lyrist ; whOe subjects of more public interest — ^the growth or decay 
of national virtue, and the condition, hopes, aspirations, and fears 
of the people in general, or of large and important sections of 
them, afford in Hke manner abundant opportunities for the moral 
or satirical song writer. "Poets," as Mr. Emerson finely and 
truly says, " should be lawgivers : that is, the boldest lyric inspi- 
ration should not chide or insult, but should commence and lead 
the civil code and the days work. 

It was in reference to this class of songs that Fletcher, of 
Saltoun, uttered the famous dictum — not his ovm — on the 
importance of song- writing. In his " Account of a conversation 
concerning the right regulation of Governments for the common 
good of mankind," he complains that "the poorer sort of both 
sexes are daily tempted to all manner of wickedness by infamous 
ballads sung in every corner of the streets. I knew," he adds, 
" a very wise man that believed if a man were permitted to make 
all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a 
nation. And we find that most of the ancient legislators thought 
they could not well reform the manners of any city without 
the help of a lyric, and sometimes of a dramatic poet." The 
extension of education and the triumphs of the printing press have 
rendered the labours of the moral and satirical song writers of less 
value than in the time of the ancient legislators, or than in those 
times, comparatively recent, when Fletcher of Saltoun wrote ; but 
even in our day, a false error may be propped up by a song, and a 
great truth advanced by the same agency. So that the dictum 
still retains a portion of its ancient value. 

The moral and satirical songs are here included together ; for 
if satire be not moral it is an abuse; and the lessons of morality 
have often a better chance of being effective, if sharpened 
by judicious satire. There are vast numbers o^f political songs 
and ballads of this class, which have been produced from 
the days of the civil wars to our own, which would alone fill 
many interesting volumes — valuable for the light they would 
throw upon the contemporary history of the period at which they 



MORAL AND SATISICAL SONGS. 131 



were issued, or for their description of costume or of manners. 
Some of the best and more permanently pleasing of the ancient 
compositions of this class are here selected, together with a few of 
the modern songs, which have become popular. 



WOMEN AEE BEST WHEN THEY AEE AT BEST. 

Anonymous. — Originally printed in 1559-60. 

Women are best when they are at rest; 

But when is that, I pray ? 
By their good will they are never still. 

By night and eke by day. 

If the weather is bad, all day they gad, 

They heed not wind or rain; 
And all their gay gear they ruin or near; 

For why — they not refrain. 

Then must they chat of this and that; 

Their tongues also must walk: 
Wheresoever they go they alway do so. 

And of their bad husbands talk. 

When Cometh the night, it is never right, 

But ever somewhat wrong; 
If husbands be weary, they are so merry, 

They never cease one song. 

Then can they chide, while at their side, 

Their husbands strive to sleep; 
"Why, how you snore! go he on the floor." 

Such is the coil they keep. 

So women ai'e best when they are at rest, 
If you can catch them still ; 
Cross them, they chide, and are worse, I have tried, 
If you grant them their will. 

Give them their way, they still say, nay, 

And change their mind Avith a trice; 
Let them alone, or you will own 

That mine was good advice. 



132 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

THE CUCKOO'S SONG. 

Anonymous. Originally printed in 1566. 

Full merrily sings the cuckoo 

Upon the beechen tree ; 
Your wives you well should look to, 

If you take advice of me. 
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn, 
When of married men 
Full nine in ten 
Must he content to wear the horn. 

Full merrily sings the cuckoo 

Upon the oaken tree; 
Your wives you well should look to, 

If you take advice of me. 
Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the day, 
For married men 
But now and then 
Can 'scape to hear the horn away. 

Full merrily sings the cuckoo 

Upon the ashen tree ; 
Your wives you well should look to, 

If you take advice of me. 
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the noon, 
When married men 
Must watch the hen, 
Or some strange fox will steal her soon. 

Full merrily sings the cuckoo 

Upon the alder tree ; 
Your wives you well should look to, 

If you take advice of me. 
Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the eve. 
When married men 
Must bid good den 
To such as horns to them do give. 

Full merrily sings the cuckoo 

Upon the aspen tree; 
Your wives you well should look to, 

If you take advice of me. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 133 

Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the night 

When manied men 

Again and again 
Must hide their horns in their despite. 

The reader will notice th.e resemblance between tliis song and tlie following 
by Shakespere — " Wlien Daisies Pied," &c. Probably Shakespere was indebted 
to the anonymous author for the idea. 



" WHEN DAISIES PIED." 

WiLLlAJI ShAXSPKEE. 

When daisies pied, and violets blue, 
And lady-smocks all silver white, 

And cuckoo-buds, of yellow hue, 

Do paint the meadows with delight : 

The cuckoo then on every tree 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he : — 

Cuckoo ! 

Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear! 

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws. 
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks ; 

When turtles tread, and rooks and daws. 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks : 

The cuckoo then on every tree 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he : — 

Cuckoo! 

Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear ! 



THE CHAEACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 

SiE Henex Wotton. 

How happy is he born and taught, 
That serveth not another's will; 

Whose armour is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill. 



134 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; 

Untied unto the world by care 
Of public fame or private breath. 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Nor vice hath ever understood ; 

How deepest wounds are given by praise, 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good. 

Who hath his life from rumours freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great. 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend : 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend. 

This man is freed from servile hands, 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 



THE CONTENTED MAN'S SONG. 

From Hugh Compton's "Pierides, or the Muses Mount," 1668. 

I HAVE no riches, neither know 
I where the mines of silver grow ; 
The golden age I cannot find, 
Yet there is plenty in my mind; 
'Tis wealth I crave, 'tis wealth that I require. 
Yet there's no wealth to fill my vain desire. 
Nor hopes thereof to still my craving lyre. 
What shall I do in such a case? 
I am accounted mean and base : 
Both friends and strangers frown on me, 
'Cause I am gall'd with poverty. 
Well, let them frown; yet I will not lament. 
Nor value them ; though fortune has not lent 
To me her blessing, yet I am content. 



ilORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 13o 

WHY SO PALE AND WAN? 

Sir Johx Suckling. 
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so jDale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 

Why so duU and mute, yoiing sinner ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can '*t win her, 

Saying nothing do't? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her. 

The devil take her ! 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 

jAiEES Shislet; bom 1-594, died 1666. 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things : 
There is no armour against fate : 
Death lays his icy hands on kings : 
Sceptre, crown, 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fi'esh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield — 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmiuing breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 



136 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

The garlands wither on your brow — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon death's temple altar now, 
See where the victor- victim bleeds : 
All hea-ds must come 
To the cold tomb : 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 



WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW. 

Anonymous, a. d. 1666. 
(From a black-letter copy among the Eoxbnrgh Songs and Ballads.) 

When this old cap was new — 

'T is since two hundred year — 
No malice then we knew, 

But all things plenty were : 
All friendship now decays, 

(Believe me, this is true) 
Which was not in those days. 

When this old cap was new. 

The nobles of our land 

Were much delighted then 
To have at their command 

A crew of lusty men ; 
Which by their coats were known, 

Of tawny, red, or blue, 
With crests on their sleeves shown, 

When this old cap was new. 

Now pride hath banish'd all. 

Unto our land's reproach, 
When he whose means is small 

Maintains both horse and coach ; 
Instead of an hundred men, 

The coach allows but two ; 
This was not thought on then. 

When this old cap was new. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

Good hospitality- 
Was cherish'd then of many ; 

Now poor men starve and die, 
And are not help'd by any ; 

For charity waxeth cold, 
And love is found in few ; 

This was not in time of old, 
When this old cap was new. 



137 




Where'er you travell'd then, 

You might meet on the way 
Brave knights and gentlemen, 

Clad in their country grey. 
That courteous would appear, 

And kindly welcome you ; 
No Puritans then were. 

When this old cap was new. 

Our ladies, in those days, 

In civil habit went ; 
Broad-cloth was then worth praise. 

And gave the best content : 
French fashions then were scorn'd, 

Fond fangles then none knew ; 
Then modesty women adorn'd, 

When this old cap was new. 
I 



138 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

A man might then behold, 

At Christmas, in each hall, 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small ; 
The neighbours friendly bidden. 

And all had welcome true ; 
The poor from the gates not chidden. 

When this old cap was new. 

Black-jacks to every man 

Were fill'd with wine and beer ; 
No pewter pot, nor can, 

In those days did appear : 
Good cheer in a nobleman's house 

Was counted a seemly show ; 
We wanted not br awn nor souse, 

When this old cap was new. 

We took not such delight 

In cups of silver fine; 
None, under the degree of knight. 

In plate drank beer or wine : 
Now each mechanical man 

Hath a cupboard of plate for shew, 
Which was a rare thing then, 

When this old cap was new, 

No captain then caroused, 

Nor spent poor soldier's pay; 
They were not so abused, 

As they are at this day ; 
Of seven days they make eight. 

To keep them from their due ; 
Poor soldiers had their right. 

When this old cap was new. 

Which made them forward still 

To go, although not prest ; 
And going with good will, 

Their fortunes were the best ; 
Our English then, in fight, 

Did foreign foes subdue ; 
And forced them all to flight, 

When this old cap was new. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 139 

God save our gracious King, 

And send him long to live ! 
Lord ! mischief on them bring ; 

That will not their alms give, 
But seek to rob the poor 

Of that which is their due : 
This was not in time of yore, 

When this old cap was new. 




TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED. 

This Indian weed, now withered quite, 
Though green at noon, cut down at night, 

Shows thy decay; 

All flesh is hay: 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco 

The pipe so lily-like and weak. 
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak: 

Thou art e'en such, — 

Gone with a touch. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco 

And when the smoke ascends on high. 
Then thou behold'st the vanity 

Of worldly stuff. 

Gone with a puff. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 



140 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

And when the pipe grows foul within, 
Think on thy soul defiled with sin; 

For then the fire 

It does require. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

And see'st the ashes cast away : 
Then to thyself thou may est say. 

That to the dust 

Eeturn thou must. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 



Second Part. 

Was this small plant for thee cut down? 
So was the plant of great renown, 

Which Mercy sends 

For nobler ends. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

Doth juice medicinal proceed 

From such a naughty foreign weed? 

Then what's the power 

Of Jesse's flower? 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

The promise, like the pipe, inlays, 
And by the mouth of faith conveys 

What virtue flows 

From Sharon's rose. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

In vain the unlighted pipe you blow, 
Your pains in outward means are so, 

'Till heavenly fire 

Your heart inspire. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

The smoke like burning incense towers; 
So should a praying heart of yours, 

With ardent cries, 

Surmount the skies. 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 141 

THE VICAK OF BRAY. 

In good King Charles's golden days, 

When loyalty no harm meant, 
A zealous high churchman T was, 

And so I got preferment : 
To teach my flock I never miss'd, 

Kings are by God appointed. 
And damn'd are those that do resist. 
Or touch the Lord's anointed. 
Chorus. 
And this is law I will maintain 

Until my dying day, sir : 
That whatsoever king shall reign, 
I '11 be the vicar of Bray, sir. 
When royal James obtain'd the crown. 

And Popery came in fashion. 
The penal laws I hooted down. 

And read the Declaration : 
The Church of Rome I found would fit 

Full well my constitution ; 
And had become a Jesuit 
But for the Revolution. 
And this is law, &c. 

When William was our king declared, 

To ease the nation's grievance, 
With this new wind about I steer'd. 

And swore to him allegiance ; 
Old principles I did revoke, 

Set conscience at a distance ; 
Passive obedience was a joke, 

A jest was non-resistance. 
And this is law, &c. 

When gracious Anne became our Queen, 

The Church of England's glory. 
Another face of things was seen, 

And I became a tory : 
Occasional conformists base, 

I damn'd their moderation ; 
And though the Church in danger was 

By such prevarication. 
And this is law, &c. 



142 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

When George in pudding-time came o'er, 

And moderate men look'd big, sir, 
I turn'd a cat-in-pan once more, 

And so became a whig, sir ; 
And thus preferment I procured, 
From our new faith's defender ; 
And almost ever day abjured 
The Pope and the Pretender. 
And this is law, &c. 

Th' illustrious House of Hanover, 

And protestant Succession ; 
To these I do allegiance swear — 

While they can keep possession : 
For in my faith and loyalty ; 

I never more will faulter. 
And George my lawful king shall be — 

Until the times do alter. 
And this is law, &c. 

" The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire," saysD'Israeli, inhis" Cixriosities of Litera- 
ture," " was a Papist, under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under 
Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a 
Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was re- 
proached for his versatality of religious creeds, and taxed for being atum-coat, and 
an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: " Not so, neither ; for 
if I changed my religion; I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live 
and die the vicar of Bray." " Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray, " says ano- 
ther statement, which has recently gone the round of the newspapers, subse- 
quently became rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. It is related that in the reign 
of Edward VI., Lawrence Sanders, the martyr, an honest but mild and timorous 
man, stated to Pendleton his fears that he had not strength of miad to endure 
the persecution of the times, and was answered by Pendleton that " he would see 
every drop of his fat and the last morsel of his flesh consumed to ashes, ere he 
would swerve from the faith then established." He, however, changed with the 
times, saved his fat and his flesh, and became rector of St. Stephen's, whilst the 
mild and diffident Sanders was burnt in Smithfield." 

In a note in Nichols' Select Poems, 1782, vol. 8, p. 234, it is stated that The song 
of the Vicar of Bray " is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller's 
regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical 
fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humour- 
ously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from 
Charles the Second to George the First." 

Extract of a Letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Eawlins, dated June '14, 1735: — 
" * * * I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray on whom the proverb. 
Mr, Hearne though born in that neighbourhood, and should have mentioned it, (Leland, 
Itinerary Vol. v. p. 114), knew not who he was, but in his last letter desired me if 1 
found him out to let him know it. Dr. Fuller in his Worthies, and Mr. Ray from him, 
takes no notice of him in his Proverbs. I suppose neither knew his name. But I am 
informed it is Simon Alleyn or Allen, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and 
died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray near 50 years. You now partake of the sport that 
has cost me some pains to take " — Letters from the Bodleian, Vol. ii. part 1, p. 100. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 143 

A MAN TO MY MIND. 

John Cunningham, born a.d. 1728, 
Since wedlock 's in vogue, and stale virgins despis'd, 
To all bachelors, greeting, these lines are premis'd. 
I 'm a maid that would marry, but where shall I find 
(I wish not for fortune) a man to my mind ? 

Not the fair-weather fop, fond of fashion and lace ; 
Not the squire, that can wake to no joys but the chase; 
Not the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind; 
Neither this — that — nor t' other's the man to my mind. 

Not the ruby-fac'd sot, that topes world without end ; 
Not the drone, who can 't relish his bottle and friend ; 
Not the fool that 's too fond, nor the churl that 's unkind ; 
Neither this — that — nor t' other's the man to my mind. 

Not the wretch with full bags, without breeding or merit ; 
Not the flash, that 's all fury without any spirit ; 
Not the fine master fribble, the scorn of mankind ; 
Neither this — that — nor t' other's the man to my mind. 

But the youth in whom merit and sense may conspire , 
Whom the brave must esteem, and the fair should admire ; 
In whose heart love and truth are with honour combin'd ; 
This — this — and no other 's the man to my mind. 

This Author's Poems were printed in 1771, and dedicated to David Garrick, 
He was the Manager of the Newcastle Theatre, and an actor of some repute 
The exact year of his death is unknown, but it was prior to 1780. 



FEOM THE COUET TO THE COTTAGE. 

Haery Caeey ; died 1748. 

Feom the court to the cottage convey me away, 
For I 'm weary of grandeur, and what they call gay : 

When pride without measure. 

And pomp without pleasure, 
Make life in a circle of hurry decay. 

Far remote and retired from the noise of the town, 
I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown ; 

My friends shall be few. 

But well chosen and true. 
And sweet recreation our evening shall crown. . 



144 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

With a rural rej^ast (a rich banquet for me), 
On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree. 

The river's clear brink 

Shall afford me my drink, 
And temperance my friendly physician shall be. 

Harry Carey was the Autlior of a great number of Songs ; among others, of 
" Sally in our Alley " — one of the most popular ever written, but a composition of 
no merit ; vulgar, and without a single sentiment to account for the favour with 
which it was received. Its popularity caused several imitations of it to be pub- 
lished, and Carey himself was among the first to set the example. In the Kev. 
James Plumptre's collection of Songs, the music revised by Dr. Hague, published 
at Cambridge in 1805, is a song called " Lovely Mary," by H. Carey, a close 
parody of " Sally in our Alley." 



THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN 

I'll sing you a good old song, 

Made by a good old pate, 
Of a fine old English gentleman, 

Who had an old estate ; 
And who kept up his old mansion 

At a bountiful old rate; 
With a good old porter to relieve 

The old poor at his gate. 
Like a fine old English gentleman, 
All of the olden time. 

His hall, "so old, was hung around 

With pikes, and guns, and bows, 
And swords, and good old bucklers. 

That had stood against old foes; 
'Twas there "his worship" held his state, 

In doublet and trunk hose ; 
And quaff'd his cup of good old sack, 

To warm his good old nose. 

Like a fine, &c. 

When Winter's cold brought frost and snow, 

He open'd house to all ; 
And though threescore and ten his years, 

He fleetly led the ball; 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 145 

Nor was the houseless wanderer, 

E'er driven from his hall; 
For, while he feasted all the gi-eat. 

He ne'er forgot the small. 

Like a fine, &c. 

But time, tho' sweet, is strong in flight, 

And years roll swiftly by; 
And Autumn's falling leaf proclaim'd 

The old man — he must die! 
He laid him down right tranquilly, 

Gave up life's latest sigh; 
A mournful stillness reign'd around, 

And tears bedew'd each eye. 

For this good, &c. 

Now surely this is better far 

Than all the new parade 
Of Theatres and Fancy Balls, 

" At Home," and Masquerade : 
And much more economical, 

For all his bills were paid. 
Then leave your old vagaries quite. 

And take up the old trade 

Of a fine old English gentleman, &c. 

" The excellent song of the Old and Young Courtier, on which this is closely 
modelled, is^" says Percy, in his Relics of Ancient English Poetry, " from an ancient black 
letter copy in the Pepys Collection, compared with another printed among some miscel- 
laneous poems and songs, in a book entitled ' The Prince d' Amour, 1660.' " 



FAIR EOSALIND. 

From " The Convivial Songster," 1782. 

Fatr Eosalind in woeful wise 

Six hearts has bound in thrall, 
As yet she undetermined lies 

Which she her spouse shall call. 
Wretched, and only wretched he 

To whom that lot shall fall; 
For if her heart aright I see. 

She means to please them all ! 
I 2 



146 MORAIi AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

SIR MARMADUKE. 

Geoege Colman " the younger^" bom 1762, died 1836. 
Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight ; 

Good man ! old man ! 
He 's painted standing bolt upright, 

With his hose roll'd over his knee ; 
His perriwig 's as white as chalk ; 
And on his fist he holds a hawk, 
And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

His dining-room was long and wide ; 

Good man ! old man ! 
His spaniels lay by the fire-side ; — 

And in other parts, d'ye see 
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; 

And he look'd like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

He never turn'd the poor from gate ; 

Good man ! old man ! 
But always ready to break the pate 

Of his country's enemy. 
What knight could do a better thing, 
Than serve the poor, and fight for his king? 

And so may every head 
Of an ancient family. 

From his play of the "Iron Chest," founded upon Godwin's novel of "Caleb 

Williams." 



CONTENT AND A PIPE. 

Contented I sit with my pint and my pipe, 

Puffing sorrow and care far away, 
And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe 

Like smoking and moist'ning out clay; 
For, though liquor can banish man's reason afar, 

'Tis only a fool or a sot, 
Who with reason or sense would be ever at war, 

And don't know when enough he has got ; 
For, though at my simile many may joke, 
Man is but a pipe — and his life but smoke. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 147 

Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer akin 

Than has as yet been understood, 
For, until with breath they are both filled within, 

Pray tell me for what are they good? 
They, one and the other, composed are of clay. 

And, if rightly I tell nature's plan, 
Take but the breath from them both quite away, 

The pipe dies — and so does the man: 
For, though at my simile many may joke, 
Man is but a pipe — and his life but smoke. 
Thus I'm told by my pipe that to die is man's lot, 

And, sooner or later, die he must ; 
For, when to the end of life's journey he's got. 

Like a pipe that's smoked out — he is dust: 
So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay, 

Encourage not stiife, care, or soitow. 
Make much of your pipe of tobacco to-day, 

For you may be smoked out to-morrow: 
For, though at my simile many may joke, 
Man is but a pipe — and his life but smoke. 



WHAT IS'T TO US WHO GUIDES THE STATE 

From the "Convivial Songster," 1782. 

What is't to us who guides the state ? 
Who 's out of favour, or who's great ? 
Who are the ministers or spies ? 
Who votes for places, or who buys? 

The world will still be ruled by knaves, 
And fools contending to be slaves. 
Small things, my friend, serve to support 
Life — troublesome at best, and short. 

Our youth nms out, occasion flies, 
Grey hairs come on, and pleasure dies ; 
Who would the present blessing lose 
For empire which he cannot use ? 



U8 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

Kind Providence has us supplied 
With what to others is denied ; 
Virtue, which teaches to condemn 
And scorn ill, actions and ill men. 

Beneath this lime-tree's fragrant shade, 
On beds of flowers supinely laid, 
Let 's, then, all other cares remove, 
And drink and sing to those we love. 



ABRAHAM NEWLAND. 

Anonymous. From the " Whim of the Day — a Collection of Songs for 1800.' 

There ne'er was a name so handed by fame. 
Thro' air, thro' ocean, and thro' land. 
As one that is wrote upon every bank-note, 
And you all must know Abraham Newland. 

Oh, Abraham Newland ! 

Notified Abraham Newland I 
I have heard people say, Sham Abraham you may, 
But you must not sham Abraham Newland. 

For fashion or arts should you seek foreign parts, 

It matters not wherever you land, 

Jew, Christian, or Greek, the same language they speak, 

That 's the language of Abraham Newland. 

Oh, Abraham Newland ! 

Wonderful Abraham Newland ! 
Tho' with compliments cramm'd, you may die and be d — d, 
If you hav'n't an Abraham Newland. 

The world is inclin'd to think Justice is blind, 
Lawyers know very well they can view land ; 
But lord, what of that ? she '11 blink like a bat, 
At the sight of an Abraham Newland. 

Oh, Abraham Newland ! 

Magical Abraham Newland ! 
Tho' Justice 'tis known can see through a millstone, 
She can't see through Abraham Newland. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 149 

Your patriots who bawl for the good of us all, 
Kind souls ! here like mushrooms they strew land, 
Tho' loud as a drum, each proves orator mum, 
If attack'd by stout Abraham Newland. 

Oh, Abraham Newland ! 

Invincible Abraham Newland ! 
No argument 's found in the world half so sound 
As the logic of Abraham Newland. 

The French say they 're coming, but sure they are humming ; 

I know what they want if they do land ; 

We '11 make their ears ring in defence of our King, 

Our country, and Abraham Newland. 

Oh, Abraham Newland ! 

Darling Abraham Newland ! 
No tri-colour'd elf, nor the devil himself. 
Shall e'er rob us of Abraham Newland. 

Mr. Abraham Newland was cashier at the Bank of England towards the close of the 
last century. 



THE GUINEA. 

From the " Whim of the Day for 1801." 

Master Abraham Newland's a monstrous good man, 
But when you've said of him whatever you can, 
Why all his soft paper would look very blue. 
If it warn't for the yellow boys — pray what think you ? 

With Newland's own letters of credit proceed. 
Pray what would you do where the people can't read ? 
But the worst of all dunces, we know very well. 
Only show them a guinea, I warrant they'll spell. 

Then your lawyers, and doctors, and such sort of folks. 
Who with fees and such fun, you know, never stand jokes, 
In defence of my argument try the whole rote, 
Sure they'll all take a guinea before a pound note. 



150 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

The French would destroy all our credit and trade, 
If they were not unable, a.sham'd, or afraid. 
They may talk of our King, but let who will be victor, 
They'd be dev'lish glad to get hold of his picture. 

From a picture like this we true Britons can't part. 
While the glorious original reigns in our heart ; 
Besides, with such tars as our navy can boast. 
And our King and his picture, we must rule the roast. 




'TWAS MEKEY IN THE HALL. 

Our ancient English melodies 
Are banish' d out of doors, 
And nothing's heard in modern days. 
But Signoras and Signers. 
Such airs I hate 
Like a pig in a gate, 
Give me the good old strain, 

When 'twas merry in the hall. 
The beards waggd all, 
We shall never see the like again ! 



On beds of down our dandies lay. 

And waste the cheerful mom, 
While our squires of old would raise the day. 
With the sound of the bugle horn; 

And their wives took care 

The feast to prepare. 
For when they left the plain, 

Oh ! 'twas merry in the hall. 

The beards wagg'd all, 
We shall never see the like again! 

'Twas then the Christmas tale was told 

Of goblin, ghost, or fairy, 
And they cheer'd the hearts of the tenants old 
With a cup of good canary. 

And they each took a smack 
Of the cold black jack, 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 151 

Till the fire bui'n'd in each brain ; 

Oh ! 'twas meny in the hall, 

The beards wagg'd all, 
May we soon see the like again ! 

In the second part of Henry IV., Act v. Scene 3, occurs these lines : — 

Be merry — be merry — my wife as all, 
For women are shi-ews, both short and tall, 
'Tis merry in hall when Beards wag all 
And welcome merry shrove-tide. 

Mr. Warton in his "History of English Poetry" observes that this rhyme is found in 
a poem by Adam Davie called the " Life of Alexander" — 

Merry swithe it is in halle, 
"\^Tieu the beards waveth alle. 

In the " Briefe Conceipts of English Pollicye," by William Stafford, 1581, it is asserted 
" that it is a common proverb, 'tis meiTy in hall when Beards wag aU." In the *' Serving 
Man's Comfort, 1598," occurs the passage " which done, gi-ace said and the table taken 
up, a song is sung, the under-song, or holding whereof, is ' It is merry in haull, where 
beards wag all.'" The song as now given is modern, and was introduced to the public 
by Mr. Murray, of the Edinburgh Theatre, who sang it in the character of Sir Mai'k 
Chase, in " A Roland for an Oliver." 



MT OPERA-BOX. 

Thomas Haynes Baylet. 
My Opera-box! my Opera-box! 
You must engage one, Mr. Coxe. 
What led the daughter of an Earl 
To link herself to such a churl ? 
The Duke, my uncle, always said 
Your father had made mints in trade ; 
And that, I thought, insured your wife 
The necessary things of life, 

And one among them, Mr. Coxe, 
I always count my Opera-box. 

My Opera-box ! my Opera-box ! 

'Tis said sweet music softens rocks; 
But that to me is not the chaiTQ, — 
It is to show my well-tm-ned arm; 
As in the front I smiling sit, 
The admu'ation of the pit. 
I nod — I smile — I kiss my hand, 
My voice far louder than the band, 

Admitting eveiy beau that knocks 
At thy closed door, my Opera-box. 



152 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 




My Opera-box! my Opera-box! 

My sense of right and wrong it shocks, 

To think tbat one of birth so low, 

When I entreat should answer "No!" 

Would none but Lady Betty do? 

"Mistress John Coxe'' might serve for you! 

But 'twas your proudest hope to stride, 

With Lady Betty at your side; 

And mine to ope your coffer's locks 
And with strong box, my Opera-box. 



My Opera-box! my Opera-box! 
Don't talk to me about the stocks. 
And rent's reduced, and in arrear, 
And money scarce, and all things dear. 
I'll have my way : her Grace (my Aunt) 
Declares I'm not extravagant; 
And says, we nobles condescend. 
When that plebeian coin we spend. 

Then be obedient, Mr. Coxe, 
And go, engage my Opera-box. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 153 

OUT. 

Thomas Haynes Bayle^. 

Out, John ! out, John ! — what are you about, John ? 
If you don't say " Out" at once, you make the fellow doubt, John ; 
Say I'm out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John ; 
Say you've not the least idea when I'll come home again, John; 
Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John 
Say I'm courting Miss Kupeel, and mean to pay them all, John. 

Out, John ! out, John ! — what are you about, John ? 

If you don't say " Out" at once, you make the fellow doubt, John. 

Eun, John ! run, John ! — there's another dun, John. 

If it's Podger, bid him call to-morrow week, at one, John. 

If he says he saw me at the window as he knock'd, John, 

Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked, John. 

Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John ; 

Say your master's not the man to bid you tell a lie, John. 

Out, John ! out, John, &c., &c., &c., &c. 

Oh, John ! go, John ! there's Noakes's knock, I know, John. 
Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John. 
TeU him just before he came you saw me mount the hill, John ; 
Say you think I've only gone to pay his little bill, John. 
Then, I think, you'd better add, that if I miss to day, John, 
You're sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John. 

Out, John ! out, John ! &c., &c., &c., &c. 

Fly, John ! fly, John ! — I will not tell you why, John. 

If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John. 

He will hear of no excuse, I'm sure he'll search the house, John, 

Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John ; 

Beg he'll take a chair and wait, I know he wont refuse, John, 

I'll hop through the little door, that opens to the mews, John. 

Out, John ! out, John ! &c., &c., &c., Ssc. 



KING DEATH. 

Baeey Coenwall From "English Songs," 1834. 
King Death was a rare old fellow — 
He sat where no sun could shine, 
And he lifted his hand so yellow, 
And pour'd out his coal black wine. 

Hurrah ! for the coal black wine! 
J 



154 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 

There came to him many a maiden 
Whose eyes had forgot to shine, 

And widows with grief o'erladen, 
for a draught of his coal black wine. 

Hurrah I &c. 

The scholar left all his learning, 

The poet his fancied woes, 
And the beauty her bloom returning. 

Like life to the fading rose. 

Hurrah ! &c. 

All came to the rare old fellow, 

Who laugh'd till his eyes dropped brine, 

And he gave them his hand so yellow. 
And pledged them in Death's black wine. 

Hurrah! &c. 



LITTLE FOOLS AND GKEAT ONES. 

Charles Mackay. From "Legend's of the Isles and other Poems," 1845, 

When at the social board you sit, 

And pass around the wine, 
Kemember, though abuse is vile, 

That use may be divine : 
That Heaven in kindness gave the grape 

To cheer both great and small — 
That little fools will drink too much, 

But great ones not at all. 

And when in youth's too fleeting hours 

You roam the earth alone. 
And have not sought some loving heart, 

That you may make your own : 
Eemember woman^s priceless worth, 

And tliink, when pleasures pall — 
That little fools will love too much, 

But great ones not at all. 



MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 155 

And if a friend deceived you once. 

Absolve poor human kind, 
Nor rail against your fellow man 

With malice in your mind; 
But in your daily intercourse, 

Eemember, lest you fall — 
That little fools confide too much, 

But great ones not at all. 

In work or pleasure, love or drink, 

Your rule be still the same — 
Your work not toil, your pleasure pure. 

Your love a steady flame; 
Your drink not maddening, but to cheer : 

So shall your bliss not pall, — 
For little fools enjoy too much. 

But gi-eat ones not at all. 



^^i 




SEA SONGS. 



IT has often been asserted that England possessed neither 
national songs nor a national music ; but this, like many other 
assertions which have long held their ground in the opinions 
of those who, without thinking for themselves, are content to 
take their guidance from others, has no foundation in fact. That 
England possesses a music of her own, no one, who has studied 
the subject and remembers the compositions of Bull, Lawes, 
Ame, Purcell, and Shield, as well as the older melodies that 
float on the popular breath, and the newer compositions of the last 
and the present age, can doubt. That England possesses a multi- 
tude of songs which are national in the best sense of the word, every 
one who has read the Sea Songs of the two Dibdins, of Thomas 
Campbell, and of many other inferior writers, will strenuously 
maintain. The Sea Songs of Thomas Campbell are among the 
finest lyrical compositions in the English or any other language, 
and those of Charles Dibdin — although written in a less elevated 
tone — ca-me fresh from, and appealed as freshly to the popular heart. 



SEA SONGS. 157 

If there be any excess of nationality among Englishmen, it leans 
towards the naval supremacy and glory of their country ; and 
from the time when Henry the Eighth sent his great fleet to 
Boulogne harbour till the day when Nelson fell at Trafalgar, the 
sea and its heroes have been sung amid the constant and hearty 
applause of the English multitude. Although very excellent sea 
songs were written before the time of Charles Dibdin, that writer 
— living in a time when this country was engaged in a struggle, 
amid which the national safety from invasion depended almost 
entirely upon her " wooden walls " and their hardy mariners — 
excelled all his predecessors, and made for himself so wide and 
enduring a reputation as to be entitled above any other man to the 
designation of the greatest of English song-writers. 

Dibdin's Sea Songs are intensely and entirely English ; they 
are English in their sound feeling ; in their contempt of danger ; 
in their rude gaiety and in their true-heartedness ; they are quite as 
English even in their prejudices, and would not suit the sailors of 
any other people. Every reader or hearer knows, though he may 
never have been at sea, though he may not have mixed with 
sailors, and though he may have received only the old traditionary 
or stage notions of their character, that the pictures are true, that 
the feelings are real, and such as no stranger could have invented ; 
just, as sometimes in a portrait we know it to be a likeness, from 
those little peculiar traits which carry conviction, though at the 
same time we may never have seen the individual represented. 
Who can mistake the character of Dibdin's " Poor Jack?" Who 
does not feel that he is a genuine Englishman, and a true sailor? 
and that there is no sailor like him on the face of the ocean, 
either for his peculiar virtues or his peculiar failings? 

Almost equal to " Poor Jack," though of a different strain, are 
the songs " Nothing like Grog," and " The Sailor's Sheet Anchor," 
in which the philosophy of drinking is laid down with a quaintness 
of humour, and a truthfulness of character, which, however objec- 
tionable in a moral point of view, are so real and life-like, that we 
can almost smell tar and tobacco, and the fames of rum-and- water, 
as we read. 

Of a similar character, but more original and varied in its 
illustrations, is the song entitled, " Grieving's a Folly;" in which 



158 SEA SONGS. 

a sailor, after depicting the good and generous qualities of the 
many messmates with whom he had sailed, and describing the 
accidents that carried them from the world, winds up each doleful 
case by a reflection on the uselessness of sorrow, and a call to his 
listeners to be happy while they may. " Jack at the Windlass " 
is still better, and is just such homespun satire as the world would 
expect from a sailor with a keen eye for the ludicrous — with a 
discrimination enabling him to detect cant and hypocrisy — and 
with the easy good-nature that would rather laugh at follies, than 
grieve at them. Dibdin's hero loves his messmates all the more 
from not being such paragons of virtue as to be a thousand fold 
better than himself — a kind of nature which every one will re- 
cognise. "Lovely Nan," and " The Sailor's Journal," are speci- 
mens of another kind, — the genuine affection of a simple heart, 
expressed in language that looks more truthful and sincere because 
tinctured with the idioms of his profession, and interlarded with 
sea similes. But every page of Charles Dibdin's excellent songs 
supplies a new variety ; and though every song seems the genuine 
expression of the sentiment of a British sailor that lived and 
moved and had his being among men, and not a stage-sailor, made 
up for show, there is but little repetition of sentiment or imagety 
The poet had the greatest of all poetic arts in high perfec 
tion — that of thoroughly placing himself in the position of the 
characters he represented, and losing sight entirely of his own 
individuality in the portraiture of theirs. Charles Dibdin, though 
inferior in those lighter graces which charm the drawing-room, is, 
as a popular song-writer, by far the best our literature has produced 
He has succeeded in pleasing the strong point in the national 
character, and though it is to be hoped for the sake of Great 
Britain, and of the world, and of the mighty interests of 
civilisation involved in the continuance of peace between all 
nations, that these stirring songs may never more be needed to 
incite the courage of our mariners, it is certain that in the 
peaceful days which we have long enjoyed and which we still 
hope to enjoy, such sea songs as those of Dibdin will exercise a 
beneficial influence upon the character of the maritime population. 
If they now and then speak more warmly in praise of the sensual 
pleasures of the bottle than is desirable, it must be remem- 



SEA SONGS. 159 

bered, in the author's defence, that intemperance at the time at 
which he wrote was a national vice — in which the noble and the 
educated indulged to as great an extent as the ignoble and the 
ignorant — that if common sailors drank, admirals did so likewise, 
and that both sailors and admirals were no worse than the general 
society — high and low — of theii' country. Dibdin, notwithstanding 
this fault of his age, has the most brilliant merits of his own. His 
songs invariably instil the sentiments of humanity, generosity^ 
mercy, hospitality, truth, and kindliness of heart, a chivalrous though 
rough admiration for female virtue and loveliness, and a manly 
sincerity and independence of character. As Dibdin said of 
them himself, with honest pride, " His songs have been considered 
an object of national consequence; they have been the solace of 
sailors in long voyages, in storms, and in battle ; and have been 
quoted in mutinies to the restoration of order and discipline." A 
few songs, appealing as strongly and as vii'tuously to the feelings 
of other classes of the people, would be a national benefit. 





THE MARINER'S SONG. 

From the Comedy of " Common Conditions." 1676. 

Lustily, lustily, lustily let us sail forth, 

The wind trim doth serve us, it blows from the north. 

All things we have ready and nothing we want 
To furnish our ship that rideth hereby; 

Victuals and weapons they be nothing scant, 
Like worthy mariners ourselves we will try. 
Lustily, lustily, &c. 

Her flags be new trimmed, set flaunting aloft, 

Our ship for swift swimming, oh ! she doth excel ; 

We fear no enemies, we have 'scaped them oft, 

Of all ships that swimmeth she beareth the belle. 
Lustily, lustily, &c. 

And here is a master excelleth in skill, 

And our master's mate he is not to seek; 

And here is a boatswain will do his good will, 
And here is a ship, boy, we never had leak. 
Lustily, lustily, &c. 

If fortune then fail not, and our next voyage prove. 

We will return merrily, and make good cheer. 
And hold all together as friends link'd in love, 

The cans shaU be fiU'd with wine, ale, and beer. 
Lustily, lustily, &c. 



SEA SONGS. 161 

THE MARINEKS GLEE. 

From " Deuteromelia; or, the Second Part of Mustek's Melodie/' &c., 1609, 

We be three poor mariners, 

Newly come from the seas; 
We spend our lives in jeopardy, 

While others live at ease. 
Shall we go dance the round, a round, 

Shall we go dance the round; 
And he that is a bully boy,^ 

Come pledge me on the ground. 

We care not for those martial men, 

That do our states disdain; 
But we care for those merchant men, 

That do our states maintain. 
To them we dance this round, a round, 

To them we dance this round ; 
And he that is a bully boy. 

Come pledge me on the ground. 

1 A bully does not here mean a braggait, but a jolly fellow — one fond of fun and frolic. 
" What say'st thou, bully Bottom ?" — Midsummer Night's Dream. 
This and the preceding song are probably the earliest nautical songs in our language. 



YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 

Ye gentlemen of England, 

That live at home at ease. 
Ah ! little do you think upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly show 
All the cares and the fears 

When the storaiy winds do blow. 
When the stoiTny, &c. 

If enemies oppose us 

When England is at war 

With any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or scar ; 
J 2 



i62 SEA SONGS. 



Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valour for to know, 
Whilst they reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do hlow 

And the stormy, &g. 

Then courage, all brave mariners, 

And never be dismay'd, 
Whilst we have bold adventurers. 

We ne'er shall want a trade : 
Oiu- merchants will employ us 

To fetch them wealth, we know; 
Then be bold — work for gold, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 
When the stormy, &c. 



TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND. 

The Eael of Dokset, bom 1637, died 1706. 

To all you ladies now on land. 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The muses now, and Neptune, too. 
We must implore to write to you. 

With a ^, la, la, la, la. 

For though the muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 

To wave the azure main, 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, 
EoU up and down our ships at sea. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Then if we wi'ite not by each post, 

Think not we are unkind; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind : 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way — 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 



SKA SONGS. 103 

The king, with wonder and surprise, 

Will swear the seas grow bold; 
Because the tides will higher rise 

Than e'er they did of old : 
But let him know it is our tears 
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 

And quit their fort at Goree : 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts behind? 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Let wind and weather do its worst. 

Be ye to us but kind ; 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse. 

No sorrow shall we find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

To pass our tedious hours away. 

We throw a merry main, 
Or else at serious ombre play; 

But why should we in vain, 
Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
We were undone when we left you. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow, 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 

Sit careless at a play : 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand or flirt your fan. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

When any mournful tune you hear, 

That dies in every note, 
As if it sigh'd with each man's care, 

For being so remote; 



164 SEA SONGS. 

Then think how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes were played. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

In justice you eannot refuse 

To think of our distress; 
When we, for hopes of honour, lose 

Our certain happiness: 
All those designs are but to prove 
Oui'selves more worthy of your love. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

And now we've told you all our loves. 
And likewise all our fears; 

In hopes this declaration moves 
Some pity for our tears : 

Let's hear of no inconstancy, 

We have too much of that at sea. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 



On the 2nd of January, 1665, Mr. Pepys went by appointment to dine with Lord 
Brouncker, at his house in the Piazza, Covent-garden. He says, " I received much mirth 
with a ballad I brought witli me, made from the seamen at sea to their ladies in town ; 
saying Sir William Pen, Sir George Askue, and Sir George Lawson made it." 

In 1665, Lord Buckhurst attended the Duke of York as a volunteer in the Dutch 
wai', and was in the battle of June 3, when eighteen Dutch ships were taken, fourteen 
others were destroyed, and Capdam, the Admiral, who engaged tiie Duke, was blown up 
beside him, with all his crew. 

On the day before the battle, he is said to have composed the celebrated song, " To all 
you ladies now on land," with equal tranquillity of mind and promptitude of wit. Seldom 
any splendid story is wholly true. I have heard, from the late Earl of Orrery, who was 
likely to have had good hereditary intelligence, that Lord Buckhurst had been a week 
employed upon it, and only re- touched or finished it on the memorable evening. But 
even this, whatever it may subtract from his facility, leaves him his courage. — Johnsons 
Lives of the Poets. 



BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 

John Gay, bom 1688, died 1732. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd. 
The streamers waving in the wind. 

When black-eyed Susan came on board, 
" O where shall I my true-love find ? 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 

Does my sweet William sail among your crew?" 



SEA SONGS. 165 

William, who Ingli upon the yard 

Rock'd by the billows to and fro, 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 

He sigh'd and cast his eyes below, 
The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, 
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

" O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 

My vows shall always true remain, 
Let me kiss ofi* that falling tear, 

We only part to meet again ; 
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

Believe not what the landsmen say. 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; 

They tell thee sailors, when away, 
In every port a mistress find; 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell you so, 

For thou art present wheresoe'er I go." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 

The sails their swelling bosom spread; 
No longer she must stay on board. 

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head : 
Her lessening boat, unwilling rows to land, 

Adieu! she cried, and waved her lily hand. 



HEARTS OF OAK. 

David GARRicK,born 1716, died 1779. 

Come, cheer up, my lads ! 'tis to glory we steer. 
To add something more to this wonderful year : 
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, 
For who are so free as the sons of the waves ? 
Hearts of oak are our ships. 
Gallant tars are our men. 
We always are ready : 
Steady, boys, steady ! 

We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 
We ne'er see our foes but wish them to stay ; 
They never see us but they wish us away ; 



166 SEA SONGS. 

Jf they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore ; 
For if they won't fight us we cannot do more. 
Hearts of oak, &c. 

They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes ! 
They frighten our women, our children, and beaux ; 
But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er, 
Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore. 
Hearts of oak, &c. 

Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea ; 
Her standard is Justice — her watch-word, " Be free.' 
Then cheer up, my lads ! with one heart let us sing, 
" Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king.' 
Hearts of oak, &c. 



THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 

William Cowper, born 1731, died, 1800. 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no morel 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore. 

Eight hundred of the brave, 

Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land breeze shook the shrouds. 

And she was overset; 
Down went the Royal George 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea fight is fought; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak; 

She ran upon no rock. 



SEA SONGS. 

His sword was in its sheath; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down, 

With twice four hundi-ed men. 

Weigh the vessel np, 

Once di-eaded hy oiu- foes! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound. 

And she may float again, 
Full charged with England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred, 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



167 




168 SEA SONGS. 



THE STOEM. 



George Alexander Stevens, died 1784. (Often attributed to 
Falconer, the Author of " The Shipwreck.") 

Cease rude Boreas, blust'ring railer ! 

List, ye landsmen, all to me, 
Messmates hear a brother sailor 

Sing the dangers of the sea; 
From bounding billows, first in motion, 

When the distant whirlwinds rise, 
To the tempest-troubled ocean. 

Where the seas contend with skies. 

Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, 

By topsail-sheets and haulyards stand ! 
Down top-gallants quick be hauling, 

Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand ! 
Now it freshens, set the braces. 

Quick the top-sail-sheets let go; 
Luff, boys, luff! don't make wry faces, 

Up your top-sails nimbly clew. 

Now all you on down-beds sporting 

Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms. 
Fresh enjoyments wanton courting. 

Safe from all but love's alarms: 
Bound us roars the tempest louder, 

Think what fear our minds enthrals; 
Harder yet, it yet blows harder, 

Now again the boatswain calls. 

The top-sail yard point to the wind, boys, 

See all clear to reef each course; 
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys, 

Tho' the weather should be worse. 
Fore and aft the sprit-sail-yard get, 

Eeef the mizen, see all clear; 
Hands up! each preventive brace set! 

Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer! 

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring 
Peal on peal contending clash, 

On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, 
In our eyes blue lightnings flash. 



SEA SONGS. 169 

One wide water all around us, 

All above us one black sky; 
Different deatlis at once suiTound us : 

Hark ! what means that di-eadful cry ? • 

The foremast's gone, cries ev'ry tongue out, 

O'er the lee twelve feet 'bove deck; 
A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out, 

Call all hands to clear the wi-eck. 
Quick the lanyards cut to pieces ; 

Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; 
Plumb the well — the leak increases. 

Four feet water in the hold! 

While o'er the sliip wild waves are beating. 

We our wives and children mourn ; 
Alas ! from hence there's no retreating, 

Alas ! to them there's no return ! 
Still the leak is gaining on us ! 

Both chain-pumps are choked below: 
Heaven have mercy here upon us i 

For only that can save us now. 

O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys, 

Let the guns o'erboard be thrown; 
To the pumps call ev'ry hand, boys, 

See ! our mizen mast is gone. 
The leak we've found it cannot pour fast; 

We've lighted her a foot or more; 
Up and rig a jury fore-mast. 

She rights! she rights, boys! we're off shore. 



COME, BUSTLE, BUSTLE. 

From the " Convivial Songster," 1782. 

Come, bustle, bustle, drink about, 

And let us merry be; 
Our can is full, we'll see it out, 
And then all hands to sea. 

And a sailing we will go, will go 
And a sailing we will go. 



170 SEA SONGS. 

Fine Miss at dancing-school is taught 

The minuet to tread, 
But we go better when we've brought 

The fore-tack to cat-head. 
And a sailing, &c. 

The jockey's called to horse, to horse, 
And swiftly rides the race ; 

But swifter far we shape our course 

When we are giving chase. 

And a sailing, &c. 

When horns and shouts the forest rend, 
The pack the huntsmen cheer, 

As loud we holla when we send 
A broadside to Mounseer. 
And a saihng, &c. 

With gold and silver streamers fine 
The ladies' rigging show ; 

But English ships more grandly shine. 
When prizes home we tow. 
And a sailing, &c. 

What's got at sea, we spend on shore 
With sweethearts and with wives. 
And then, my boys, hoist sail for more; 
Thus sailors pass their lives. 

And a sailing they do go, do go; 
And a sailing they do go. 



THE BAY OF BISCAY, ! 

Andrew Cherry. 

Loud roared the dreadful thunder, 

The rain a deluge showers, 
The clouds were rent asunder 

By lightning's vivid powers; 
The night both drear and dark, 

Our poor devoted bark, 
Till next day, there she lay, 

In the Bay of Biscay, ! 



SEA SONGS. 171 

Now dashed upon the hillow, 

Our opening timbers creak, 
Each fears a wat'rj pillow, 

None stops the dreadful leak ; 
To cling to slipp'ry shrouds 

Each breathless seaman crowds, 
As she lay, till the day 

In the Bay of Biscay, ! 

At length the wished-for morrow, 

Broke through the hazy sky, 
Absorbed in silent sorrow, 

Each heaved a bitter sigh ; 
The dismal wreck to view, 

Struck hoiTor to the crew, 
As she lay, on that day, 

In the Bay of Biscay, 

Her yielding timbers sever, 

Her pitchy seams are rent. 
When Heaven all bounteous ever, 

Its boundless mercy sent; 
A sail in sight appears. 

We hail her with tlu'ee cheers. 
Now we sail, with the gale, 

From the Bay of Biscay, ! 

This song, as a piece of lileraiy composition, is unvrorthv of tlie faroTiT and reputation 
it lias acquired. 

Another stanza to this song appears in some collections, but we omit it, as not neces- 
sary to the completion of the story, and as quite unworthy of the sentiment which per- 
vades the rest of the piece. 



THE MID-WATCH. 

ElCHARB BeINSLEY ShEEID.VV. 

When 'tis night, and the mid- watch is come. 

And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main, 
Then sailors think of theii' far distant home, 

And of those friends they ne'er may see again ; 
But when the fight's begun. 
Each serving at his gun, 
Should any thought of them come o'er your mind, 
Think only should the day be won, 



172 SEA SONGS. 

How 'twill cheer 
Their hearts to hear 
That their old companion he was one. 

Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind 
Have left on shore, some pretty girl, and true. 
Who many a night doth listen to the wind, 
And sighs to think how it may fare with you; 
O, when the fighfs hegun, 
You serving at your gun, 
Should any thought of her come o'er your niincJ, 
Think, only should the day be won. 
How 'twill cheer 
Their hearts to hear 
That their old companion he was one. 



POOE JACK. 

ChAKLES DlliDIN. 

Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see^ 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; 
A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me. 

And it a'nt to a little I'll strike. [smite. 

Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack smooth should 

And shiver each splinter of wood, 
Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight, 

And under reef d foresail we'll send t 
Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 

To be taken for trifles aback; 
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack I 

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day 

About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; 
And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ; 

Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch ; 
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see, 

Without orders that come down below; 
And a many fine things that proved clearly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow : 
For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft 

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, 
There's a sweet little cheriib that sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 



SEA SONGS. 173 

I said to our Poll — for, d'ye see, she would cry — 

When last we weigh'd anchor for sea, 
What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? 

Why, what a damn'd fool you must he ! 
Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, 

Both for seamen and luhbers ashore? 
And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, 

You never will hear of me more. 
What then ? All's a hazard : come, don't be so soft : 

Perhaps I may laughing come back ; 
■For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft. 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as one as a piece of the ship. 
And with her brave the world not offering to flinch 

From the moment the anchor's a-trip. 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, 

Nought's a trouble from a duty that springs, 
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's, 

And as for my will 'tis the king's. 
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 

As for grief to be taken aback; 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 

Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! 



BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. 

Chakles Dibdin. 
Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 

The main-mast by the board ; 
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, 

And love, well stored, 
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, 
The roaring winds, the raging sea, 
In hopes on shore, 
To be once more 
Safe moor'd with thee ! 
ASoft while mountains high we go, 

The whistling winds that scud along, 
And surges roaring from below, 
Shall my signal be, 
To think on thee ; 
And this shall be my song: 

Blow high, blow low, &c. 



174 SEA SONGS. 

And on that night when all the crew 

The mem'ry of their former lives 
O'erflowing cans of flip renew, 

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 
I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; 
And as the ship rolls on the sea, 
The hurthen of my song shall be — 
Blow high, blow low, &c. 



TOM BOWLINa. 

Charles Dibdin. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew ; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For death has brought him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty ; 

His heart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful, below, he did his duty, 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted; 

His Poll was kind and fair : 
And then he'd sing so blythe and jolly ; 

Ah, many's the time and oft! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 

When he, who all commands. 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands 
Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doffed; 
For though his body's under hatches, 

His soul is gone aloft. 



SEA SONGS. I7i 



THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. 

Chaeles Dibbik. 

One night came on a hurricane, 

The sea was mountains roUing, • 
When Barney BuntUne tum'd his quid, 

And said to Billy Bowling : 
"A strong nor-wester's blowing, BiU; 

Hark! don't ye hear it roar now? 
Lord help 'em, how I pities aU 

Unhappy folks on shore now! 

" Fool-hardy chaps who iiye in town, 

What danger they are aU in, 
And now are quaking in their beds, 

For fear the roof should fall in: 
Poor creatui-es, how they envies us, 

And wishes, I've a notion, 
For our good luck, in such a storm, 

To he upon the ocean, 

•' But as for them who're out all day, 

On business from their houses, 
And late at night are coming home. 

To cheer the babes and spouses ; 
While you and I, Bill, on the deck, 

Are comfortably lying, 
My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying ! 

"And very often have we heard 

How men are killed and undone, 
By overturns of carnages. 

By thieves, and fires in London. 
We know what risks all landsmen run. 

From noblemen to tailors ; 
Then, Bill, let us thank Providence 

That you and I are sailors!" 



176 SEA SONGS. 

HEAVING OF THE LEAD. 

Charles Dibdin. 

For England when with fav'ring gale 
Our gallant ship up channel steer'd, 

And, scudding under easy sail, 

The high blue western land appear'd; 

To heave the lead the seaman sprung, 

And to the pilot cheerly sung, 

" By the deep — nine !" 

And bearing up to gain the port. 

Some well-known object kept in view; 

An abbey-tow'r, an harbour-fort, 
Or beacon to the vessel true ; 

While oft the lead the seaman flung, 

And to the pilot cheerly sung, 

" By the mark — seven !" 

And as the much-loved shore we near, 
With transport we behold the roof 

Where dwelt a friend or partner dear. 
Of faith and love a matchless proof. 

The lead once more the seaman flung, 

And to the watchful pilot sung, 

" Quarter less — five !" 

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh: 
We shorten sail — she feels the tide — 

*' Stand clear the cable," is the cry — 
The anchor's gone ; we safely ride. 

The watx3h is set, and through the night. 

We hear the seamen with delight, 

Proclaim — " All's well !" 



TRUE COUEAGE. 

Charles Dibdin. 

Why, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a-wiping 
A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way; 

'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping ; 
But they that han't pity, why I pities they. 



SEA SONGS. 177 

Says the Captain, says he (I shall never forget it) 

" If of courage you'd know, lads, the trae from the sham, 

'Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it. 

But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb." 

There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not earing, 
Helter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive ; 

Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing, 
And as for a foe, why he'd eat him alive. 

But when that he found an old prisoner he'd wounded, 
That once saved his life as near drowning he swam, 

The lion was tamed, and, with pity confounded, 
He cried over him just all as one as a lamb. 

That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger, 
Or lay my life do^vn for each lad in the mess, 

Is nothing at all, — 'tis the poor wounded stranger, 
And the poorer the more I shall succour distress : 

For however their duty bold tars may delight in, 

And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam, 
Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting. 

He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb. 

The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion, 
And if both shed their drops 'tis all to the same end; 

And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean 

Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend. 

If my maxim's disease, 'tis disease I shall die on, — 

You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn ! 4 

In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion. 

But, the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb. 



LOVELY NAN. 

Charles Dibdin. 

Sweet is the ship that under sail, 
Spreads her white bosom to the gale; 

Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can: 
Sweet to poise the lab'riug oar. 
That tugs us to our native shore. 

When the boatswain pipes the ba»ge to man 
K 2 



178 SEA SONGS. 

Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze ; 
But, oh! much sweeter than all these 
Is Jack's delight — his lovely Nan. 

The needle, faithful to the north, 
To show of constancy the worth, 

A curious lesson teaches man; 
The needle time may rust — a squall 
Capsize the binnacle and all, 

Let seamanship do all it can; 
My loYe in worth shall higher rise: 
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize 
My faith and truth to lovely Nan. 

When in the bilboes I was penn'd, 
For serving of a worthless friend, 

And every creature from me ran; 
No ship, performing quarantine, 
Was ever so deserted seen ; 

None hail'd me — woman, child, nor man : 
But though false fiiendship's sails were fuii'd, 
Though cut adiift by all the world, 

I'd all the world in lovely Nan. 

I love my duty, love my friend. 
Love truth and merit to defend, 

To mourn their loss who hazard ran; 
I love to take an honest part, 
Love beauty and a spotless heart, 
» But manners love to show the man; 

To sail through life by honour's breeze : — 
'Twas all along of loving these 

First made me dote on lovely Nan. 



EVEEY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET. 

I'm a tough, true-hearted sailor, 

Careless and all that, d'ye see. 
Never at the times a railer — 

What is time or tide to me? 
All must die when fate shall will it, 

Providence ordains it so; 
Every bullet has its billet. 

Man the boat, boys — Yeo, have yeo. 



SEA SONGS. 179 

'* Life's at best a sea of trouble, 

He wlio fears it is a dunce ; 
Death, to me, an empty bubble, 

I can never die but once. 
Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it : 

Yet I have a tear for woe ;" 

Eveiy bullet lias its billet, &c. 

Shrouded in a hammock, glory 

Celebrates the falling brave; 
Oh! how many, famed in story, 

Sleep below in ocean's cave. 
Bring the can, boys — let us fill it; 

Shall we shun the fight ? Oh, no ! 

Eveiy bullet has its billet, &c. 

Man the boat, boys — Yeo, have yeo. 



LIFE'S LIKE A SHIP. 

^ From a small volume of Lyrical Poetrj, privately printed at the expense of Mr. George 
irryer, in 179S. 

Life's like a ship, in constant motion^, 

Sometimes high, and sometimes low. 
Where eveiy one must brave the ocean, 

Whatsoever wind may blow; 
If un assail 'd by squall or show'r, 

Wafted by the gentle gales. 
Let's not lose the fav'ring hour, 

While success attends the sails. 



Or, if the wayward winds should bluster. 

Let us not give way to fear; 
But let us all our patience muster. 

And leam from Reason how to steer: 
Let judgment keep you ever steady; 

'Tis a ballast never fails ; 
Should daugers rise, be ever ready 

To manage well the sweUinfj sails. 



180 SEA SONGS. 

Trust not too much to your own opinion 
Willie your vessel's under way|; 

Let good example bear dominion — 
That's a compass will not stray ; 

When thund'ring tempests made you shudder, 
Or Boreas on the surface rails, 

Let good Discretion guide the rudder, 
And Providence attend the sails. 

Then when you're safe from danger, riding 

In some welcome port or bay, 
Hope be the anchor you confide in, 

And care awhile enslumber'd lay; 
Or, when each can's with liquor flowing. 

And good fellowship prevails, 
Let each true heart, with rapture glowing, 

Drink success unto our sails. 



THE LAND, BOYS, WE LIVE IN. 

From the " Myrtle and the Vine," vol. ii. 

Since our foes to invade us have long been preparing, 
'Tis clear they consider we've something worth sharing. 

And for that mean to visit our shore ; 
It behoves us, however, with spirit to meet 'em, 
And though 'twill be nothing uncommon to beat 'em, 
We must try how they'll take it once more. 

So fill, fill your glasses, be this the toast given — 

Here's England for ever, the land, boys, we live in! 

So fill, fill your glasses, be this the toast given — 

Here's England for ever, huzza! 

Here's a health to our tars on the wide ocean ranging. 
Perhaps even now some broadsides are exchanging. 

We'll on shipboard and join in the fight; 
And when with the foe we are firmly engaging, 
Till the fire of our guns lulls the sea in its raging, 

On our country we'll think wath delight: 
So fill, fill your glasses, &c. 



SEA SONGS. 181 

On that thi'one where once Alfred in glory was seated, 
Long, long may oar king by his people be greeted; 

Oh! to guard him we'll be of one mind. 
May rehgion, law, order, be strictly defended, ^ 

And continue the blessings they first were intended, 

In union the nation to bind! 
So fill, fill youi- glasses, &c. 



THE DEATH OF NELSON. 

L. J. AnNOLD. (From the Opera of" The Americans.") 

Recitative. 

O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent giief oppressed, 
Britannia moum'd her hero, now at rest; 
But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years, 
Whose leaves are watered by a nation's tears 



Air. 

'Twas in Trafalgar's bay 
We saw the Erencbman lay; 

Each heart was bounding then. 
We scorn'd the foreign yoke. 
Our ships were British oak. 

And hearts of oak our men. 

Our Nelson mark'd them on the wave, 
Three cheers our gallant seamen gave. 

Nor thought of home and beauty. 
Along the line this signal ran — 
" England expects that every man 

This day will do his duty." 

And now the cannons roar 
Along the affrighted shore ; 

Om' Nelson led the way: 
His ship the Yict'ry named; 
Long be that Victory famed! 

For victory crown'd the day. 



182 SEA. SONGS. 



But dearly was that conquest bought, 
For well the gallant hero fought 

For England, home, and beauty. 
He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran, 
"England expects that every man 

This day will do his duty !" 

At last the fatal wound, 
Which spread dismay around, 

The hero's breast received: 
" Heav'n fights on our side. 
The day's our own," he cried; 

" Now, long enough I've liv'd. 

In honour's cause my life was past, 
In honour's cause I fall at last. 

For England, home, and beauty !' 
Thus ending life as he began, 
England confess'd that every man 

That day had done his duty. 



THE ARETHUSA. 

Prince Hoare, born 1754, died 1834. 

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, 

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, 

While English glory I unfold — 
Huzza to the Arethusa ! 

She is a frigate tight and brave, 

As ever stemm'd the dashing wave: 
Her men are stanch 
To their fav'rite launch, 

And when the foe shall meet our fire. 

Sooner than strike, we'll all expire, 

On board of the Arethusa. 

'Twas with the spring fleet she went out, 
The English Channel to cruise about, 
When four French sail, in shore so about, 
Bore down on the Arethusa. 



SEA SONGS. 183 

The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie — 
The Arethusa seem'd to fly; 

Not a sheet or a tack, 
Or a brace did she slack; 
Though the Frenchman laugh'd, and thought it stuff; 
But they knew not the handful of men, how tough^ 
On board of the Arethusa. 

On deck five hundred to en did dance. 
The stoutest they could find in France; 
We with two hundred did advance, 
On board of the Arethusa. 
Our captain hail'd the Frenchman, " Ho !"' 
The Frenchman then cried out " Hollow !" 

" Bear down, d'ye see, 

To our admiral's lee." 
"No, no," says the Frenchman, "that can't be;" 
*' Then I must lug you along with me," 

Says the saucy Arethusa. 

The fight was off the Frenchman's land ; 
We forced them back upon the strand ; 
For we fought till not a stick would stand 

Of the gallant Arethusa. 
And now we've driv'n the foe ashore, 
Never to fight with Britons more, 
Let each fill a glass 
To his fav'rite lass ; 
A health to the captains and officers true, 
And all that belong to the jovial crew, 

On board of the Arethusa. 



THE OEIGIN OF NAYAL AKTILLEKY. 

Thomas Dibdin. 

When Vulcan forged the bolts of Jove 

In Etna's roaring glow, 
Neptune petition'd he might prove 

Their use and power below ; 
But finding in the boundless deep 
Their thunders did but idly sleep, 
He with them arm'd Britannia's hand. 
To guard from foes her native land. 



184 SEA SONGS. 

Long may she own the glorious right, 

And when through circling flame 
She darts her thunder in the fight, 
May justice guide her aim ! 
And when opposed in future wars, 
Her soldiers brave and gallant tars 
Shall launch her fires from every hand 
On every foe to Britain's land. 



THE MINUTE GUN. 

R. S. Shakpe. 

When in the storm on Albion's coast. 
The night-watch guards his wary post, 

From thoughts of danger free. 
He marks some vessel's dusky form. 
And hears, amid the howling storm, 

The minute gim at sea. 

Swift on the shore a hardy few 
The life-boat man with gallant crew 

And dare the dangerous wave : 
Through the wild surf they cleave their way, 
Lost in the foam, nor know dismay, 

For they go the crew to save. 

But, oh! what rapture fills each breast 
Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd I 
Then; landed safe, what joy to tell 
Of all the dangers that befell ! 
Then heard is no more, 
By the watch on shore. 

The minute gun at sea. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

Thomas Campbell, bom 1777, died 1844. 

"Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas; 
Whose flag has braved a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze! 



SEA SONGS. 185 

your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe! 
And sweep through the deep, 

Wliile the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow: 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep; 
Her march is o'er the mountain wave. 

Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 
As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow: 
When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The Meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn; 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return; 
Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow: 
When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

This beautiful lyric— one of the finest compositions in the English language— is 
modelled upon Martyn Parker's ballad "Ye Gentlemen of England," (see page 161). 
The author was accused of plagiarism by a small critic, but might have retorted that if 
he had stolen a penny worth of iron he had converted it into a hundred pounds worth ol 
steel. Such literary thefts as these ai"e literary benefits. 



186 SEA SONGS. 



THE BATTLE OF THE tBALTIC. 

Thomas Campbell. 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold determined hand. 

And the prince of all the land. 

Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

Tt was ten of April morn by the chime, 

As they drifted on their path. 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 

But the might of England flush'd, 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between. 

" Hearts of oak !" our captains cried ; when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack. 

Till a feebler cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 

Then ceased, and all is wail. 

As they strike the shatter'd sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. 



SEA SONGS. 187 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o'er the wave ; 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : 

So peace instead of death let us bring ; 

But yield, proud foe, thy jfleet, 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our king. 

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and giief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from the day. 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight. 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

Now joy. Old England, raise ! 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 

Let us think of them that sleep, 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore. 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride. 
Once so faithful and so ti-ue, 
On the deck of fame that died ; 

With the gallant good Eiou : , ^ 

Soft sigh tlie winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
While the billow mournful rolls 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave ! 
A captain in the fleet, "justly entitled the gallant and the good by Lord Nelson." 



188 SEA SONGS. 

THE CHAPTEE OE ADMIRALS. 

From the " Myrtle and the Vine." 

Lord Effingham kicked the Armada down, 
And Drake was a-figliting the world all round; 
Gallant Ealeigh lived upon fire and smoke, 
But Sir John Hawkins's heart was broke. 

Yet barring all pother, the one and the other 
Were all of them lords of the main. 

Sir Humphrey he was lost at sea, 

And frozen to death was poor Willoughby ; 

Both Grenyille and Erobisher bravely fell — 

But he 'twas Monson who tickled the Dutch so well. 

The heart of a lion had whisker 'd Blake, 
And York was a seaman for fighting's sake ; 
But Montague perish'd among the brave, 
And Spragge was doom'd to a briny grave. 

To Eussell the pride of the Erenchmen struck, 
And their ships at Vigo were burnt by Eooke ! 
But Sir Cloudesley Shovel to the bottom went, 
And Benbow fought till his life was spent. 

Porto-Bello the Spaniards to Vernon lost. 
And sorely distmb'd was Hosier's ghost. 
Lord Anson with riches return'd from sea; 
But Balchin was drown'd in the Victory. 

Of conquering Hawke let the Erenchmen tell, 
And of bold Boscawen who fought so well; 
While Pocock and Saunders as brightly shine 
In the Annus Mnabilis, Eifty-nine. 

Warren right well for his country fought. 
And Hughes too did as Britons fought ; 
Then Parker so stoutly the Dutchmen shook, 
And the flower of the Erench bully Eodney took. 

Howe, Jer\ls, and Hood, did bravely fight. 
And the Erench and Spaniards put to flight; 
And when they shall venture to meet us again, 
Britain's sons will give proof they are lords of the main. 

'Twere endless to mention each hero's name, 
Whose deeds on the ocean our strength proclaim; 
Erom Howard to Howe we have beat the foe, 
But brave Duncan has given the finishing blow. 



SEA SONGS. 

THE SEA. 

Barry Cornwall. 

The sea, the sea, the open sea, 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free : 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round : 

It Inlays with the clouds, it mocks the skies. 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, 

I am where I would ever be, 

With the blue above and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go. 

If a storm should come and awake the deep. 

What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, how I love to ride 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide. 
Where every mad wave drowns the moon. 
And whistles aloft its tempest tune : 
And teUs how goeth the world below. 
And why the south-west wiud doth blow. 
I never was on the dull, tame shore. 
But I loved the gi-eat sea more and more, 
And backward Hew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh her mother's nest— 
And a mother she was and is to me, 
For I was born on the open sea. 

The waves were white, and red- the morn. 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
The whale it whistled, the porpoise roU'd, 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild. 
As welcom'd to life the ocean child. 
I have lived since then, in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers a rover's life, 
With wealth to spend, and a power to range, 
But never have sought or sighed for change ; 
And death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wide unbounded sea ! 



190 



SEA SONGS. 




THE NEGLECTED SAILOE. 

Edward Rushton, of Liverpool, bom 1756, died 1814. 

I SING the British seaman's praise, 

A theme renown'd in story: 
It well deserves more polish'd lays, 

'tis your boast and glory; 
When mad brained war spreads death around 

By them you are protected, 
But when in peace the nation's found, 

These bulwarks are neglected. 

Chorus. 

Then protect the hardy tar, 

Be mindful of his merit. 
And when again you're plung'd in war, 

He'll show his daring spirit, 



When thickest darkness covers all, 
Far on the trackless ocean; 

When lightnings dart, when thunders roll. 
And all in wild commotion. 



SEA SONGS. 3 01 

When o'er the bark the white topt waves, 

"With boist'rous sweep, and rolling, 
Yet coolly still the whole he braves, 
Untam'd amidst the howling. 

Then protect, &c. 

When deep immers'd in sulphurous smoke. 

He seeks a glowing pleasure, 
He loads his gun, he cracks his joke, 

Elated beyond measure; 
Tho' fore and aft the blood-stain'd deck, 

Should lifeless trunks appear. 
Or should the vessel float a wreck, 

The sailor knows no fear. 

Then protect, &c. 

When long becalm'd on southern brine. 

Where scorching beams assail him, 
When all the canvass hangs supine. 

And food and water fail him; 
Then oft he dreams of Britain's shore, 

Where plenty still is reigning. 
They call the watch, his rapture's o'er, 

He sighs, but scorns complaining. 

Then protect, &c. 

Or burning on that noxious coast, 

Where death so oft befriends him, 
Or pinch 'd by hoary Greenland frost, 

True courage still attends him. 
No time can this eradicate. 

He glories in annoyance; 
He fearless braves the storm of fate, 

And bids grim death defiance. 

Then protect, &c. 

Why should the man who knows no fear. 

In peace be e'er neglected ; 
Behold him move along the pier, 

Pale, meagre and dejected. 
Behold him begging for employ, 

Behold him disregarded ; 
Then view the anguish of his eye. 

And say, are tars regarded? 

Then protect, &c. 



192 



SEA SONGS. 



To them your dearest rights you owe, 

In peace then would you starve them? 
What say ye Britain's sons? Oh, no, 

Protect them and preserve them. 
Shield them from poverty and pain, 

'Tis policy to do it; 
Or when Avar shall come again, 

O Britons ye may rue it. 

Then protect, &c. 








PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

N G L I S H literature possesses but two 
patriotic songs which can be considered 
pre-eminently national, — the anthems of 
" God save the Queen," and " Rule Britan- 
nia." Neither of these, as a poetical com- 
position, is of the highest order of merit, 
and both of them owe their great popularity 
almost entirely to the beautiful music with which their indifferent 
poetry has been associated. As regards our patriotic songs in 
general, the English people have so long been accustomed to attri- 
bute to the naval service the chief glory and defence of the 
countiy, that the sea songs have become with the two great 
exceptions named, more patriotic in 'their character than the 
soncfs which celebrate the deeds of the militarv. The Battle of 



194 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

Waterloo has not produced a song which can be compared with 
those splendid lyrics, the "Battle of the Baltic," and "Ye 
Mariners of England." Indeed, it would appear that however 
popular the " red coats " may be among the ladies of the land, 
they are not by any means so popular as the " blue " among 
the poets and the musicians. The dangers and the glories, the 
hardships and the rewards, the grief and the joy of soldiers, 
have found echoes comparatively faint in the hearts of the people. 
Even the patriotic song of "Rule Britannia" included in this 
series, partakes more of the character of a naval than of a military 
anthem. 



FEOM MERCILESS INVADERS. 

Eeom merciless invaders. 
From wicked men's device, 
O God ! arise and help us, 
To quell our enemies : 
Sink deep their potent navies. 
Their strength and courage break, 
God! arise and save us, 
For Jesus Christ his sake. 

Though cruel Spain and Parma, 
With heathen legions come, 
O God ! arise and arm us, 
We'll die for our home; 
We will not change our credo, 
For Pope, nor book, nor bell, 
And if the devil come himself, 
We'U hound him back to hell. 

" This," says Mr. Chappell, in a note in his collection of National English Airs, " is a 
sort of hymn, which appears to have been written at the time of the threatened invasion 
af the Spanish Armada, and is here given from a manuscript in the possession of 
E.. Pearsall, Esq., bearing the date of 1588. The mixture of devotion and defiance in the 
words, forms a curious sample of the spirit of the times." 

Mr. Pearsall, the proprietor of the manuscript, in a note communicated to Mr. Chap- 
pell, says — " The original MS. came into my possession with some family papers, derived 
from my father's maternal grandfather, John Stile, who was the great grandson of John 
Stile, Bishop of Bath and Wells in the time of Elizabeth," (author of ' Gammer 
Gurtin's Needle,' and the song of 'Jolly Good Ale, and Old.') "He was," adds Mr. 
Pearsall, " a very distinguished amateur of music ; and I feel confident that both the 
music and the words are the bishop's own composition. The MS. is headed thus : — 
" A hymne to be sung bv all Englande ; — Women, Youthes, Clarkes, and Souldiers. — 
Made by J. S." 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 195 

GOD SAVE THE KING. 
God saye our gracious King, 
Long live our noble King, 

God save the King. 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us, 

God save the King. 

Lord our God, arise, 
Scatter his enemies, 

And make them fall; 
Confound theii- politics, 
Frustrate their knavish tricks, 
On him our hopes we fix, 

God save us all. 

Thy choicest gifts in store, 
On him be pleased to pour, 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice 

God save the King. 

The national song of God Save the King [may it long continue to be sung as now, 
God save the Queen] — is generally believed to have been composed by Dr. John Bull 
for King James the First, a,d, 1667. The authorship both of the words and music has 
long been a matter of dispute, and has excited almost as much controversy as the author 
ship of the letters of Junms. Mr. Chappell, in the notes to his collection of Old Eughsli 
Airs, states that " about the year 1796, George Sa-ville Carey asserted his father's claim to 
the authorship of this song, and made a journey to Windsor in the hope of obtaining some 
l^ecuniary recompense from the King. His claim Avas acquiesced in by Archdeacon 
Coxe, in his anedotes of J- C. Smith, Handel's amanuensis ; and by Mr. S. Jones, in 
his 'Biographia Dramatica.' It was by no means G. S. Carey's wish, though he 
claimed the authorship for his father, to prove also that it was first A\Titten for King 
James, as that would have defeated his hopes of reward ; and probably his concealment 
of that fact tended more than any else to throw a suspicion upon his statement. It was 
immediately proved, upon concurrent testimonies, to have been sung ' God save great 
James, our King,' and from that time we may date the endless discussions and asser- 
tions on the subject. Although it is impossible to prove at this distance of time that 
Harry Carey was actually the author and composer of the National Anthem, yet, there 
being not a shadow of proof of any other claim, his having the direct and "positive 
attestations of J. C, Smith and Dr. Hamngton, coupled with the strong internal evidence 
in both words and music leave little doubt on the subject. Add to this, that the 
accounts of Dr. Burney and Dr. Cooke, of its having been sung ' God save great James,' 
are clearly reconcilable with its being his production ; that all attempts to prove a copy 
before Carey's time have failed ; moreover, it is admitted that he sang it in public 
(announcing it as his own production) five years before the first publication; and his not 
claiming it when it attained its gi-eat popularity in 1745, being explained by his having 
put an end to his existence thi-ee years before, at the advanced age of eighty, and leaving 
his son an infant." 



196 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

THE SOLDIER'S GLEE. 

From " Deuteromelia ; or, tlie Second Part of Musick's Melodic," &c., 1609. 
We be soldiers three, 

Pardonnez moi je vous en prie; 

Lately come forth of the low country, 

With never a penny of monie. 

Here good fellow, I drink to thee ! 

Pardonnez moi je vous en prie; 
To all good fellows wherever they be, 

With never a penny of monie. 

And he that will not pledge me this, 

Pardonnez moi je vous en prie ; 
Pays for the shot whatever it is, 

With never a penny of monie. 

Charge it again boy, charge it again, 

Pardonnez moi je vous en prie; 
As long as there is any ink in thy pen, 

With never a penny of monie. 

COME, IF YOU DARE. 

John Dryden. From the opera of " King Arthur." 
Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; 
Come, if you dare, the foes rebound ! 
" We come, we come !" 
Says the double beat of the thund'ring drum, 
Now they charge on amain. 
Now they rally again ; 
The gods from above the mad labour behold, 
And pity mankind that will perish for gold. 

The fainting foemen quit their ground, 
Their trumpets languish in the sound — 
They fly ! they fly ! 
" Victoria ! Victoria !" the bold Britons cry. 
Now the victory's won, 
To the plunder we run; 
Then return to our lasses like fortunate traders, 
Triumphant with spoils of the vanquished invaders. 

The morality of this admired song — admired for its music, not for its poetry — is by no 
means of the best. Plunder, even of an invader, should form no part of the true soldier's 
aspirations. " The angels above the mad labour behold " might be suggested as an im- 
provement upon the paganism " The gods from above." 



PATEIOTIC AND MILIT.UIY SONGS. 197 

EULE BEITANNIA. 

James Thomsox, author of "The Seasons,"' born 1700, died 1748. 

When Britain first, at HeaTen's command, 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sing the strain ; 

Eiile Britannia, Britannia ndes the waves : 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The nations, not so hlest as thee, 

Must in then- tiu-n, to tyrants fall; 
Whilst thou shalt ilourish, gTeat and free, 

Tlie dread and envy of them all : 

Eule Britannia, &:c. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 

More dreadful fi-om each foreign stroke; 

As the loud blasts that tear thy sides, 
Serve but to root thy native oak : 

Eide Britannia, &c. 

Thee, haughty trrants ne'er shall tame : 

All theii- attempts to hurl thee down, 
Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame, 

And work their woe — but thy renown : 

Eule Britannia, Szc. 

To thee belongs the xwcol reign; 

Thy cities shall with commerce sliine : 
All thine shall be the subject main. 

And every shore encii'cle thine : 

Bule Britannia, &c. 

The Muses, still with Freedom foimd. 

Shall to thy happy coast repair; 
Blest Isle ! with matchless beauty crown 'd, 

And manly hearts to guard the fan*. 

Eule Britannia, kc. 

This celebrated song was first sung in the "Masque of Alfred," a performance which 
was the joint production of Thomas and David Mallet. The Masque was -written by 
command of the Prince of "Wales, father of George III., for his entertainment of the comt, 
and was first performed at Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of her R.H. the Princess of 
Wales. 



H)8 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE. 

William Collins, born 1720, died 1756. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest? 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould ; 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is simg; 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay. 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 



THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND. 

Henr^ Fielding and Richaed Leveridgh. 

When mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food, 
It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood; 
Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good. 
Oh ! the Roast Beef of old England, 
And oh ! for old England's Roast Beef. 

But since we have learned from effeminate France 

To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance, 

We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance. 

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c. 

Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong. 
And kept open house with good cheer all day long, 
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song. 

Oh ! the Roast Beef, &c. 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 199 

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, 
Ere coffee and tea, and such shp-slops were known ; 
The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown, 

Oh ! the Eoast Beef, &c. 

In those days, if ileets did presume on the main, 
They seldom or never retm'n'd back again; 
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain, 

Oh! the Eoast Beef, &c. 

Oh ! then we had stomachs to eat and to fight, 

And when wi'ongs were cooking, to set ourselves right; 

But now we're a — hmn! — I could, but, — good night! 

Oh ! the Eoast Beef, &c. 
The Eoast Beef of Old England -was first printed in Walsh's " British Miscellany," 
n.d. (about 1740). It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, but the two first 
verses are Fielding's. (See "Don Quixote in England," 1733). 



THE BKITISH GEENADIEES. 

Anonymous. From an engraved "Musio-sheet," printed about 1780. 

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules. 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these ; 

But of all the world's brave heroes, there's none that can compare, 

With a tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British grenadier. 

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, 
Or knew the force of powder to slay thek foes withal ; 
But om* brave boys do know it, and banish all their feai's. 
Sing tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British grenadiers. 

Then Jove, the god of thunder, and Mars, the god of war. 
Brave Neptune with his tiident, Apollo in his car. 
And all the gods celestial, descending from their sphere. 
Behold with admii'ation the British gTenadier. 

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the paUsades; 

Oxvc leaders march with fusees, and we with hand gi-enades, 

We throw them from the glacis, about the Frenchmen's ears, 

With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers. 

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, 

The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier, 

Here come the gi'enadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears. 

Then sing tow. row row. row row, row row, for the British grenadiers. 



200 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a healtli to those 

Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes. 

May they and their commanders live happy all their years, 

With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers 



THE SOLDIEE'S DEINKING-SONG. 

From the " Convivial Songster," 

Let's drink and sing, 

My brother-soldiers bold, 
To country and to king, 

Like jolly hearts of gold ! 
If mighty George commands us, we're ready to obey; 
To fight the foe, alei't we go, where danger points the way. 
Nor wounds nor slaughter fright us, 

Nor thund'ring cannon-balls; 
Nor beds of down delight us 

Like scaling city walls. 

With sword and gun, 

We'll make the foe to fly : 
No Britons dare to run, — 

All Britons dare to die. 
And when, at length returning with honour, gold, and scars 
We cheerful come to view the home we left for foreign wars, 
Again we'll meet the danger, 

Again renew the fight, 
And tell the list'ning stranger 

What foes are put to flight. 

Then drink and sing, 

My brother-soldiers bold. 
To country and to king, 

Like jolly hearts of gold! 
While merry fifes so cheerful our sprightly marches play, 
While drums alai-m our bosoms warm, they drive our cares away. 
Content we follow glory. 

Content we seek a name, 
And hope in future storj' 

To swell our country's fame. 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 201 

THE BRAYE MEN OF KENT. 

From D'UiiFEY. 

When Harold was invaded, 

And, falling, lost his crown, 
And. Norman William waded. 

Tkrough gore to pull Mm down": 
When comities round, with fear profound. 

To mend theii- sad condition, 
And lands to save, base homage gave, 
Bold Kent made no submission. 

Sing, sing, in praise of men of Kent, 

So loyal, brave, and free: 
'Mongst Britain's race if one surpass, 
A man of Kent is he. 

The hardy stout freeholders. 

That knew the tyrant near, 
In gii'dles and on shoulders 

A gi'ove of oaks did bear : 
Whom when he saw in battle draw, 

And thought how he might need 'em, 
He tui-n'd his arms, allow'd their terms 

Eeplete with noble freedom. 
Then sing in praise, &c. 

And when, by barons wi-angling, 

Hot faction did increase. 
And vile intestine jangling 

Had banish'd England's peace, 
The men of Kent to battle went. 

They fear'd no wild confusion, 
But, join'd with York, soon did the work, 

And made a bless' d conclusion. 
Then sing in praise, &c. 

The gen'rous, brave, and hearty, 

All o'er the shire we find ; 
And for the low church party 

They're of the brightest kind. 
L 2 



202 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY" SONGS. 

For king and laws they prop the cause 
Which high church has confounded; 

They love with height the moderate right, 
But hate the crop-ear'd Roundhead. 
Then sing in praise, &c. 

The promis'd land of hlessing, 

For our forefathers meant, 
Is now in right possessing, 

For Canaan sure was Kent: 
The dome at Knoll, by fame enroU'd 

The church at Canterbury, 
The hops, the beer, the cherries, here. 

May fill a famous story. 

Then sing in praise, &c. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Thomas Campbell. 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 

And the sentinel-stars set this watch in their sky, 
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd, 

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 

By the wolf-scaring fagot, that guarded the slain, 
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 

And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, 
'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 203 

" Stay, stay with us, rest — thou art weaiy and worn !" 

And fain was the war-hroken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow retum'd with the dawning of mom, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! 



MEN OF ENGLAND. 

Thomas Campbell; 

Men of England! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their blood! 
Men whose undegenerate sphit 

Has been proved on field and flood: — 

By the foes you've fought uncounted, 
By the glorious deeds ye've done, 

Trophies captured — breaches mounted, 
Navies conquer' d — kingdoms won. 

Yet, remember, England gathers 

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 

If the freedom of your fathers 

Glow not in your hearts the same. 

What are monuments of bravery, 
Where no public virtues bloom ? 

What avail in lands of slavejy, 

Trophied temples, ai-ch, and tomb? 

Pageants ! — Let the world revere us 
For our people's rights and laws. 

And the breasts of civic heroes 

Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 

Yours are Hampden's, Eussell's glory, 
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — 

Martyi's in heroic stoiy, 

Worth a hundi'ed Agincourts ! 

We're the sons of shes that baffled 
Crown'd and mitred tyranny; — 

They defied the field and scaffold 

For their bii'thrights — so will we! 



304 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

THE PATEIOT. 
Reginald Heber, born 1783, died 1826. 

S\^ell! swell, the shrOl trumpet sounding afar! 

Our sabres flash splendour aroimd; 
For freedom has summoned her sons to the war ! 

Nor Britain has shrunk from the sound. 

Let plunder's vile thirst the invaders inflame ; 

Let slaves for their wages be bold; 
Shall valour the harvest of avarice claim? 

Shall Britons be bartered for gold? 

No! free be our aid, independent our might, 
Proud honour our guerdon alone : 

Unbought be the hand that we raise in the fight. 
And the sword that we brandish our own. 

And all that we love to our thoughts shall succeed, 
Their image each labour shall cheer; 

For them we will conquer, for them we will bleed. 
And our pay be a smile or a tear. 

And oh, if retumiug triumphant we move, 
Or sink on the land that we save — 

Oh! blest by his country, his kindred, his love, 
How vast the reward of the brave ! 



THE BUEIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
Charles Wolfe, boin 17W, died 1823. 
Not a drum was heard, nor a fun'ral note. 

As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The turf with oin* bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
And our lanterns dimly burning. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead, 
And bitterly thought of the morrow. 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 205 

No useless coffin confin'd his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him* 

But half our heavy task was done, 

When the clock tolled the hoiu" for retiring; 

And we heard the distant random gun 
Of the enemy suddenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



THE SOLDIEE. 

W. Smyth. From "Aikins' Vocal Poetry," 1810. 

What dreaming drone was ever blest, 

By thinking of the morrow? 
To-day be mine — I leave the rest 

To all the fools of sorrow; 
Give me the mind that mocks at care. 

The heart, its own defender; 
The spirits that are light as air, 

And never beat surrender. 

On comes the foe — to arms— to arms— 

We meet — 'tis to death or glory; 
'Tis victory in all her charms. 

Or fame in Britain's story; 
Dear native land! thy fortunes frown. 

And ruffians would enslave thee; 
Thou land of honour and renown, 

Who could not die to save thee? 

'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball ; 

And me it better pleases. 
In battle ^ith the brave to fall, 

Than die of cold diseases; 



206 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

Than drivel on in elbow-chair 

With saws and tales unheeded, 

A tottering thing of aches and care, 
Nor longer loved nor needed. 

But thou — dark is thy flowing hair, 

Thine eye with fire is streaming; 
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air, 

Health sits in triumph beaming; 
Then, brother soldier, fill the wine, 

Fill high the wine to beauty ; 
Love, friendship, honour, all are thine, 

Thy country and thy duty. 



THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND. 

Thomas Dibdin. 

Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say, 

If ever I lived upon dry land. 
The spot I should hit on would be Little Britain! 

Says Freedom "Why that's my own island!" 
0, it's a snug little island! 
A right little, tight little island ! 
Search the globe round, none can be foimd 
So happy as this little island. 

Julius Caesar, the Koman, who yielded to no man, 

Came by water— he couldn't come by land; 
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their backs on. 
And all for the sake of our island. 
0, what a snug little island; 
They'd all have a touch at the island ! 
Some were shot dead, some of them fled, 
' And some stayed to live on the island. 

Then a very great war-man, caUed Billy the Norman, 

Cried, d — n it, I never liked my land. 
It would be much more handy, to leave this Normandy, 

And live on your beautifid island. 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 207 

Says he, ** 'tis a snug little island; 
Shan't us go visit the island?" 
Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump. 
And he Idck'd up a dust in the island. 



But party deceit help'd the Normans to beat ; 

Of traitors they managed to buy land; 
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been lick'd, 
Had they stuck to the King of their island. 
Poor Harold, the king of our island! 
He lost both his life and his island. 
That's all very true : what more could he do ? 
Like a Briton he died for his island ! 



The Spanish armada set out to invade — a. 
Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. 
They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess, 
And take their full swing on the island. 
the poor Queen of the island ! 
The Dons came to plunder the island; 
But snug in her hive, the queen was alive. 
And " buzz " was the word of the island. 



These proud puff'd-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes 

Of our wealth ; but they hardly could spy land, 
When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck 
And stoop to the lads of the island ! 
The good wooden walls of the island ; 
Devil or Don, let them come on; 

And see how they'd come off the island ! 



Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept time, 

In each saying, "This shall be my land;" 
Should the " Army of England," or all it could bring, land. 
We'd show 'em some play for the island. 

We'd fight for our right to the island; 
We'd give them enough of the island; 
Invaders should just — bite once at the dust, 
But not a bit more of the island. 



PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 

UPON THE PLAINS OF FLANDEES. 

Upon tlie plains of Flanders, 

Our fathers long ago, 
They fought like Alexanders 

Beneath old Marlborough; 
And still in fields of conquest, 

Our valour bright has shone, 
With Wolfe and Abercrombie, 

And Moore and Wellington. 

Our plumes have waved in combats, 

That ne'er shall be forgot, 
Where many a mighty squadron 

Eeeled backwards from our shot. 
In charges with the bayonet, 

We lead our bold compeers; 
But Frenchmen like to stay not 

For British grenadiers. 

Once bravely at Vimiera 

They hoped to play their parts, 
And sing fal lira, lira. 

To cheer their drooping hearts. 
But English, Scotch, and Paddy-whacks, 

We gave three hearty cheers, 
And the French soon turned their backs 

To the British grenadiers. 

At St. Sebastiano, 

And Badajos's town. 
Though raging like volcanoes 

The shell and shot came down. 
With courage never wincing. 

We scaled the ramparts high, 
And waved the British ensign 

In glorious victory. 

And what could Bonaparte 

With all his curassiers, 
In battle do, at Waterloo, 

With British grenadiers? 
Then ever sweet the drum shall beat 

That march unto our ears. 
Whose martial roll awakes the soul 

Of British grenadiers. 




:3^ir(,i V 



SPORTING SONGS. 
S a people, the Englibh are pre-emiiieiit\v 
fond of sporting, and have been so from 
the earUest times ; hut this passion has 
left few enduring traces upon our poeti- 
cal literature. Somer^ille s " Chase" is 
the only sporting poem the language can 
boast, and it is a poem deserving of 
more than the niggardly praise which 
Dr. Johnson has bestowed upon it in his 
" Lives of the Poets." But beyond this, 
there is little or nothing to show in our 
poetry of which literature can justly be 
proud, unless it be an occasional descrip- 
tion in the rhymed roniances of Sir 
Walter Scott. The rude sports of the 



210 SPORTING SONGS. 

field have for the most part been celebrated by rude writers, and 
the homeliest diction seems to have been considered the most 
appropriate, or at all events the most likely to please the rough 
or ready gentlemen who leap five-bar gates, and live their 
lives among hounds and horses. Even Dibdin, so admirable 
in his sea songs, becomes coarse when he sings of the sports 
of the field. And yet the sporting songs of England are highly 
popular. 

The roaring choruses of "Hark forward!" or "Tantivy," 
or " Tantarara," or, worse than all, "Yoicks! Tally-ho!" are 
doubtless exciting enough at sportsmen's festivals after the sports 
of the day are concluded; although they do not look well in 
print, and have no attractions for the mere reader. It requires a 
congenial and uncritical audience, a good singer, a loud chorus of 
willing voices, and the contagious enthusiasm of a large company, 
to render such roystering ballads at all agreeable, or even tolerable, 
and paper and print invariably rob them of their attractions. 
The quiet reader cannot see the beauty of the sport, and is tempted 
to echo the opinion of Charles Dibdin : — 

"When all ready mounted they number their forces, 
Enough the wild boar or the tiger to scare, 
Pity fifty stout beings — count men, dogs, and horses, 
Should encounter such perils — to kill one poor hare!" 

It must be admitted, however, that Sir Walter Scott has 
thrown a charm and a grace into hunting songs, which were 
utterly unknown before he wrote. Yet, at the same time, his 
songs are considered by sportsmen to be unsuited to the subject, 
and to belong more properly to the drawing-room than to the 
field. The true sportsman, according to Somerville, the laureate 
of the chase, loves the " concert of the dog-kennel" better than 
any other. 

The songs in .praise of angling, cricketing, and skating are, as 
literary compositions, of a much more refined class than any other 
sporting lyrics. 

Mr. Armiger, of Melton Mowbray, who published in 1830 a 
collection of songs and ballads relating to Racing, Hunting, 
Coursing, Shooting, Hawking, Angling, and Archery, has selected 
no less tlian three liMudred Ivries of these various kinds ; wdiicli 



SPORTING SONGS. 211 

number, great as it is, is far from having exhausted the subject : 
for, with a view of presenting an original compilation, he purposely 
excluded from it every song to be found in a similar volume, 
published in 1810, under the title of "Songs of tiie Chase," 
containing upwards of 340 songs upon the same topics. The 
object of his volume was to show the groundlessness of " the 
complaint frequently made at the festive board of a dearth of 
sporting songs," an object in which he most undoubtedly suc- 
ceeded, although his collection might be cited to prove what 
neither he nor the previous editor intended to show — a dearth of 
genius in writers of this class. The selection here made includes 
some of the most ancient sporting songs in the language — ■ 
valuable on that account if on no other — and also some of the 
most popular of later compositions. 




M -4 



212 



SPORTING SONGS. 




THE THREE ARCHEKS. 

We three Archers be, 
Rangers that rove throughout the north country, 

Lovers of ven'son and liberty, 
That value not honours or money. 

We three good fellows be, 
That never yet ran from three times three. 
Quarterstaff', broadsword, or bowmanry, 

But give us fair play for our money. 

We three merry men be, 
At a lass or a glass under greenwood tree ; 
Jocundly chaunting our ancient glee, 

Though we had not a penny of money. 

Tliis song, of which the editor has not been able to trace the first appearance, i 
modellecl upon the style of, or is a parody upon, " The Soldier's Glee, from the " Deuto 
roinalia." — See " Mililaiy and Patriotic Songs " 



SPORTING SONGS. 



213 



ROBIN, LEND TO ME THY BOW. 

From a curious musical miscellany, called " Pamelia," 4to. Lond. .16©9. The song, 
bowever,is much older than the date of the book, being frequently mentioned by Elizabethan 
writers. 

Now, Robin, lend to me tliy bow, 

Sweet Robin, lend to me thy bow ; 
For I must now a hunting with my lady go. 

With my sweet lady go 

And whither will thy lady go ? 

Sweet Wilkin tell it unto me j 
And thou slialt have my hawk, my hound, and eke my bow, 

To wait on thy ladye. 




My lady will to Uppingham,^ 

To Uppingham, forsooth, will she ; 

And I myself appointed for to be the man, 
To wait on my ladye. 



1 A market town in Rutlandshire. 



214 SPORTING SONGS. 

Adieu, good Wilkin, all beshrewd, 

Thy hunting nothing pleaseth me ; 
But yet beware thy babbling hounds stray not abroad, 

For ang'ring of thy ladye. 

My hounds shall be led in the line, 

So well I can assure it thee ; 
Unless by view of strain some pursue I may find, 

To please my sweet ladye. 

With that the lady she came in, 

And will'd them all for to agree ; 
For honest hunting never was accounted sin, 

Nor never shall for me 



THE ANGLES. 

John Chalkhill 

Oh ! the gallant fisher's life. 

It is the best of any: 
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, 
And 'tis beloved by many : 
Other joys 
Are but toys ; 
Only this 
Lawful is ! 
For our skill 
Breeds no ill 
But content and pleasure. 

In a morning, up we rise, 
Ere Aurora's peeping , 
Drink a cup to wash our eyes, 
Leave the sluggard sleeping ; 

Then we go, 

To and fro, 

With our knacks 

At our backs. 

To such streams 

As the Thames, 
If we have the leisure. 



SPORTING SONGS. 

When we please to walk abroad 

For our recreation ; 
lu tlie fields is our abode, 
' Full of delectation; 

Where, in a brook, 

With a hook — 

Or a lake, — 

Fish we take ; 

Th-ere we sit. 

For a bit. 
Till we fish entanole. 



21^) 




We hare geatles in a liorn, 

We have paste and worms too; 
We can watch both night and morn, 
Sufi'er rain and storms too ; 
None do here 
Use to swear ; 
Oaths do fi-ay 
Fish away ; 
We sit still 
Watch our quill : 
Fishers must not wransfle. 



'210 SrORTIJyG SONGS. 

Jf the sun's excessive heat 
J\Iake our bodies swelter, 
To an osier hedge we get, 
For a friendly shelter ; 
Where — in a dyke, 
Perch or pike, 
Eoach or daice, 
We do chase, 
Bleak or gudgeon, 
Without giTidging; 
We are still contented. 

Or, we sometimes pass an hour 

Under a gi-een willow, 
Til at defends us from a shower. 
Making earth our pillow ; 
Where we may 
Think and pray, 
Before death 
Stops our hreath : 
Other joys 
Are but toys, 
And to be lamented. 



WHEN A SHOOTING WE DO GO. 

Anonymous. Date uncertain. Eighteenth century. 

The season's in for Partridges, 

Let's take our guns and dogs ; 
It sha'n't be said that we're afraid, 
Of quagmires, or of bags. 

When a shooting we do go, do go, do 
When a shooting we do go. 

Now "Flora" she doth beat the scent, 

And after follows " Phillis ;" 
Thro' hedge and brake the way let's take, 

For all our aim to kill is. 

When a shooting, &c. 

And should success attend us. 

What pleasure it will prove ! 
Let's charge, and prime, and lose no time, 

While through the fields we rove. 

When a shooting, &c. 



SPORTING SOXGS. 

It is not for ourselves we slioot, 
'Tis to oblige our neighbours ; 

And, when they eat, they may debate 
On the produce of our labours. 

When a shooting, &c. 

Of shooting, then, let us partake ; 

What pastime is so pleasant? 
The Partridge gone, we'll charge each gun, 

And so proceed to Pheasant 

When a shooting, &c. 



2L7 







And when those seasons they are o'er. 

Perchance, if we've good luck ; 
We'll take the chase, and never cease 

'Till we have shot a Buck. 

Wlien a shooting', &c. 



How sumptuously we then shall feast 
On ven'son, steep'd in wine ! 

On dainties rare, how we shall fare ! 
Like Alexanders dine ! 

When a shooting, &c. 



218 SPORTING SONGS. 

In friendship, and in harmony, 

Let's join in social hands ; 
And try who most his friend can toast, 

And so unite our hands ! 

And a shooting, &c. 

The chorus or burden of this and the following song appears to have been a great 
favourite with the popular writers of the last century. It has been reproduced in an 
almost countless number of songs, upon every variety of subject. The liberality of the 
sportsman of fonner days, mentioned in the fourth stanza, might well be imitated by 
their degenerate and mercenary successors. Many sportsmen, at present, seem to prefer 
catering for Leadenball market and the poulterers, obliging their friends and neigh- 
bours, as true sportsmen loved to do formerly. 



A HUNTINa WE WILL GO. 

; Henry Fielding, born 1707, died 1754. 

The dusky night rides down the sky, 

And ushers in the morn : 
The hounds all join in glorious cry, 

The huntsman winds his horn. 

And a hunting we will go. 

The wife around her husband throws 

Her arms to make him stay ; 
" My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; 

You cannot hunt to-day." 

Yet a hunting we will go. 

Away they fly to 'scape the rout, 

Their steeds they soundly switch ; 
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. 

And some thrown in the ditch. 

Yet a hunting we will go. 

Sly Keynard now like lightning flies, 

And sweeps across the vale ; 
And when the hounds too near he spies, 

He drops his bushy tail. 

Then a hunting we will go. 

Fond Echo seems to like the sport, 

And join the jovial cry ; 
The woods, the hills, the sound retort, 

And music fills the sky. 

When a hunting we do go. 



SPORTING SONGS. 



219 




At last his strength to faintness worn, 
- Poor Eeynard ceases flight ; 
Then hungry, homeward we return, 
To feast away the night. 

And a drinking we do go. 

Ye j ovial hunters, in the morn 

Prepare then for the chase ; 
Rise at the sounding of the horn. 

And health with sport embrace. 

When a hunting we do go. 



There are sevei'al versions of this song, of various degrees of length and of merit. 
"This song," says Mr. Chappell, in his collection of national English airs, "was 
originally to the tune of 'A Begging we will go,' (1660.) The words by Fielding are 
contained in his ballad opera of Don Quixote in England, but have been since somewhat 
altered." 



220 SPORTING SONGS. 

OLD TOWLER. 

Anonymous. Eighteenth century.' 

Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn, 

And spangles deck the thorn, 
The lowing herds now quit the lawn, 

The lark springs from the corn : 
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, 

Fleet Towler leads the cry. 
Arise the burden of my song, 
This day a stag must die. 
With a hey, ho, chevy ! 
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy ! 
Hark! hark! tantivy' ! 
This day a stag must die. 

The cordial takes its merry round, 

The laugh and joke prevail. 
The huntsman blows a jovial sound, 

The dogs snufF up the gale ; 
The upland "wilds they sweep along. 

O'er fields, through brakes they fly. 
The game is roused, too tine the song, 

This day a stag must die. 

With a hey, ho, &c. 

Poor stag ! the dogs thy haunches gore, 

The tears run down thy face. 
The huntsman's pleasure is no more. 

His joys were in the chase ; 
Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns, 

To win the blooming fair, 
But yet he honours each by turns, 

They each become his care. 

With a hey, ho, &c. 



THE HIGH-METTLED RACER. 

Charles Dibuin. 
See, the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun. 
What confusion, but hear ! — " I'll bet you, Sk !" — " Done, done !' 
A thousand strange mui-murs resound far and near. 
Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear; 



SPORTING SONGS. 



221 




While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, 
Pamper'd, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast 
Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, 
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. 



Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush 
Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush ; 
They run him at length, and they have him at bay, 
And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day ; 
AVhile alike born for sports in the field or the course, 
Always sure to come thorough — a staunch and fleet horse ; 
And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, 
The high mettled racer is in at the death. 



Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud. 
Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood; 
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, 
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, liis sire won that race 
And what matches he'd won to the ostlers count o'er. 
As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door ; 
Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, 
The hio-h-mettled racer's a hack on the road. 



At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, 

Bow'd down by diseases, he bends to his fate; 

Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill, 

Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still; 



222 SPORTING SONGS. 

And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to our view 
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew ; 
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics suiTOimds 
The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds. 



TOM MOODY. 

AnonymcKis. 

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; 

The hell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell, 

A more ahle sportsman ne'er followed a hound 

Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. 

No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood, 

But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good ; 

And all with attention would eagerly mark, 

When he cheered up the pack, " Hark! to Kockwood, hark! Iiaik ! 

High ! — wind him ! and cross him ! 

Now, Ratler, boy ! — Hark ! 

Six crafty earth-stoppt^i-s, in hunter's green drest. 
Supported poor Tom to " an earth" made for rest : 
His horse, which he styled his " Old Soul," next appear'd, 
On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd ; 
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound, 
And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound. 
Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace !' 
Nor the Welkin resound his burst in the chase ! 
With " High over ! — Now press him ! 
Tally ho !— Tally ho !" 

Thus Tom spoke his friends, ere he gave up his breath : 
" Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death, 
One favour bestow — 'tis the last I shall crave, 
Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave ; 
And unless at that warning I lift up my head, 
My boys, you may fauiy conclude I am dead !" 
Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky, 
For ev'ry voice join'd in the tally ho cry, 
Tally ho ! Hark forward I 
Tally ho ! Tally ho !" 



SPORTING SONGS. 



223 




THE BOY JN YELLOW. 

From Songs of the Chase, 1810. 

When first I strove to win the prize, 

I felt my youthful spirits rise ; 

Hope's crimson flush illumed my face, 

And all my soul was in the race. 

When weigh'd and moimted, 'twas my pride, 

Before the starting-post to ride ; 

My rival's drest in red and green, 

But I in simple yellow seen. 



In stands around fair ladies swarm, 
And mark with smiles my slender lorm ; 
Their lovely looks new ardour raise, 
For beauty's smile is merit's praise ! 
The flag is dropt — the sign to start- 
Away more fleet than winds we dart, 
And tho' the odds against me lay, 
The boy in yellow wins the day ! 



224 SPORTING SONGS. 

Tho' now no more we seek the race, 
I trust the jockey keeps his place ; 
For still to win the prize, I feel 
An equal wish, an equal zeal : 
And still can beauty's smile impart 
Delightful tremors through tliis heart : 
Indeed, I feel it flutter now — 
Yes, while I look, and while I bow ! 

My tender years must vouch my truth- 
For candour ever dwells witli youth ; 
Then sure the sage might well believe, 
A face — like mine — could ne'er deceive, 
If here you e'er a match should make. 
My life upon my luck I'll stake ; 
And 'gainst all odds, I think you'll say. 
The boy in yellow wins the day. 



THE CEICKETEE. 

Anonymous. Eighteenth century. 

To live a life, free from gout, pain, or phthisic, 
Athletic employment is found the best physic ; 
The nerves are bv exercise hardened and strengthened, 
And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthened. 

Derry down, &c. 

Wliat conduces to health deserves recommendation, 
'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation ; 
And of all the field-games ever practised or known, 
That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own. 

Deny down, &c. 

Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling. 
And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling ; 
Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight. 
If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite. 

Derry down, &c. 

The cricketer noble in mind as in merit, 
A taste for oppression can never inherit, 
A stranger to swindling, he never would wish 
To seduce by false baits, and betray a poor fish. < 

Derry don-u. 



SPORTING SONGS. 226 

No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind, 
To innocent animals never unkind, 
The guiltless his docti'ine is ever to spare, 
Averse to the hunting or killing the hare. 

Deny down, &c. 

To every great duke, and to each noble lord, 
Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord ; 
And to all brother knights, whether absent or present. 
Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant. 

Derry down, &c. 



FAE AWAY. 

From " Songs of tlie Chase," 1810. 

The portals of the east divide ; 
The orient dawn is just descried. 

Mild and grey : 
The starry fires elude the sight ; 
The shadows fly before the light, 

Far away. 

Now hark! the woodland haunt is found! 
For now the merry bugles sound 

Their sylvan lay : 
As each sweet measure floats along, 
Sweet Echo wakes her mimic song, 

Far away. 

The stag now rous'd, right onward speeds. 
O'er hill and dale, o'er moor and meads, 

He's fain to stray : 
His flight the shouting peasants view ; 
His steps the dashing hounds pursue, 

Far away. 

All day untir'd, his route we trace. 
Exulting in the joyous chase, 

Of such a day ! 
At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam. 
He's taken in the valley stream. 

Far away. 



226 SPORTING SONGS. 

NOW NIGHT HER DUSKY MANTLE. 

Now night her dusky mantle folds, 

The larks are soaring high ; 
And morn her golden shafts has shot, 

To gild the eastern sky; 
We sportsmen scour the distant plains. 

The hounds pursue their prey ; 
While echoes round the valleys sound, 

Hark forward, hark away ! 

O'er mountain top, and river deep, 

The fox for shelter flies, 
And cowering into coverts strong. 

His cunning vainly tries ; 
His death proclaims the sportsman's joy. 

The dogs they seize their prey ; 
While echoes round the valleys sound, 

Hark forward, hark away ! 



SAY WHAT IS WEALTH. 

Sat, what is wealth without delight ? 
'Tis dross, 'tis dirt, 'tis useless quite ; 
Better be poor, and taste of joy, 
Than thus your wasted time employ. 
Then let a humble son of song, 

Repeat those pleasures most divine ; 
The joys that life's best hours prolong. 

Are those of hunting, love, and wine. 

For hunting gives us jocund health, 
We envy not the miser's wealth, 
But chase the Fox or timid Hare, 
And know delight he cannot share. 
Then home at eve we cheerly go. 

Whilst round us brightest comforts shine 
With joy shut in, we shut out woe. 

And sing of hunting, love, and wine. 

MUd love attunes the soul to peace. 
And bids the toiling sportsman cease ; 
This softer passion's pleasing pow'r. 
With bliss ecstatic wing the hour. 



SPORTING SONGS. 

It soothes the mind to sweetest rest, 

Or savage thoughts might there entwine ; 

Thus he alone is truly blest, 
Whose joys are hunting, love, and wine. 

'Tis wine exhilarates the heart. 
When sinking under sorrow's smart ; 
'Tis that can ease the wretch's woe. 
And heighten ev'ry bliss we know. 
But wine's abuse makes man a beast, 

Be all with moderation mine ; 
Life will appear one endless feast, 

While blest with himting, love, and wine. 



227 




EINGWOOD. 

From " Songs of the Chase," 1610. 

Ye darksome woods where Echo dwells, 
Where every bud with freedom swells. 

To meet the glorious day : 
The morning breaks; again rejoice ; 
And with old Eingwood's well-known voice, 

Bid tuneful Echo play 



228 SPORTING SONGS. 

We come, ye groves, ye Mils, we come, 
The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom, 

And dread our jovial trin. 
The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies, 
While every sportsman joyful cries, 

There's Eingwood's voice again. 

Ye meadows, hail the coming throng ; 
Ye peaceful streams that wind along, 

Repeat the Hark- away: 
Far o'er the Downs, ye gales that sweep. 
The daring oak that crowns the steep, 
The roaring peal convey. 

The chiming notes of cheerful hounds, 
Hark ! how the hollow dale resounds ; 

The sunny hills how gay. 
But Where's the note, brave dog, like thine ? 
Then urge the steed, the chorus join, 

'Tis Ringwood leads the way. 



THE SKATERS' SONG. 

From Abmiger's "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet." 

This bleak and frosty morning, 
All thoughts of danger scorning. 
Our spirits brightly flow ; 
We're all in a glow, 
Through the sparkling snow, 
While a-skating we go, 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, 
To the sound of the merry horn. 

From right to left we're plying. 

Swifter than winds we're flying ; 

Spheres on spheres surrounding. 

Health and strength abounding. 

In circles we sleep ; 

Our poise still we keep, 

Behold how we sweep 

The face of the deep. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la. 
To the sound of the meny horn. 



SPORTING SONGS. 229 

Great Jove looks on us smiling, 
Who th-us the time beguiling : 
Though the waters he sail, 
Still we row on our keel, 
Our weapons are steel, 
And no danger we feel, 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la. 

To the sound of the merry horn. 

See, see our train advances, 
See how each skater lances ; 
Health and strength abounding, 
While horns and oboes sounding ; 
The Tritons shall blow 
Their cone-shells below. 
And their beards fear to show, 
While a-skating we go, 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, 

To the sound of the merry horn. 



HAEK! THE HOLLOW WOODS EESOUNDING. 

From Akmigee's '' Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet." 

Haek ! the hollow woods resounding, 

Echo to the hunter's cry ; 
Hark ! how all the vales siuTOunding 

To his cheering voice reply. 

Kow SO swift o'er hills aspii-ing, 

He pursues the gay delight, 
Distant woods and vales retiring 

Seem to vanish from his sight. 

Flying still, and still piu-suing. 
See the fox, the hounds, the men ; 

Cunning cannot save from laiin. 
Ear from refuge, wood, and den. 

Now they kill him, homeward hie him. 

To a jovial night's repast; 
Thus no soiTow e'er comes nigh them, 

Health continues to the last. 



230 SPORTING SONGS. 

Hark ! the hollow woods resounding. 

Echo to the hunter's cry ; 
Hark ! how all the vales surrounding 

To his cheering voice reply. 

There are several versions of this song. 



THE TUNEFUL SOUND OF EOBIN'S HOEN. 

Anonymous. Eighteenth century. 

The tuneful sound of Eohin's horn 
Hath welcom'd thrice the blushing mom ; 
Then haste, Clorinda, haste away, 
And let us meet the rising day. 

And through the green wood let us go, 
With arrows keen, and bended bow ; 
There breathe the mountain's fresh'ning gale. 
Or scent the blossoms in the vale. 

For nature now is in her prime, 
'Tis now the lusty summer time ; 
When grass is green, and leaves are long. 
And feather'd warblers tune their song. 

At noon, in some sequester'd glade, 
Beneath's some oak-tree's ample shade 
We'll feast, nor envy all the fare 
Which courtly dames and barons share. 

See, see in yonder glen appear 
In wanton herds the fallow-deer ; 
Then haste, my love, oh ! haste away. 
And let us meet the rising day. 



THE FOX-HUNTEE'S HALL. 

Ye fox-hunters, stag, aye, and hare-hunters too, 
Whose aim is to rub off the furrows of care. 

Like Nimrods the fleet-footed brusher pursue. 

And taste of the sweets of the morn-breathing air ! 

Come hither, come hither, at jollity's call, 

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! 



SPORTING SONGS. 231 

To friendship, true friendship, the toast shall go round. 
To love, and the pleasure derived from the chase; 

For while love and friendship in union are found. 
What bliss can of hunting, fox-hunting take place ? 

Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call, 

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall! 

The breeze of the morn, like the lip-kiss of love, 

Invites us to hail it as something divine ! 
While the sound of the horn, like a harp from above, 

Awakens a joy for which thousands repine. 
Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call, 
And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! 

What's life without love ? and what's gold without health? 

A phantom, a fly-trap, or dream at the best ; 
While health, love, and friendship, are treasures of wealth, 

And those that possess them with paradise blest : 
Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call. 
And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! 



THE HEALTH OF SPOETING. 

Anonymous. Eighteenth century. 

Keep silence, good folks, and I pray you attend, 
For I'm no common singer you'll find in the end. 

Tally-ho! Tally-ho! 

I'm a hunting physician, and cure ev'ry ill. 
Disorders and pains, without bolus or piU. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

Let the man who's disturbed by misfortune and care, 
Away to the woodlands and vallies repair. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

Let him hear but the notes of the sweet swelling horn, 
With the hounds in full cry, and his troubles are gone. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

Let the lovers who secretly simper and sigh, 
And droop at the sight of a blue or black eye. 

Tally-ho, &c 



232 ' SPORTING SONGS. 

Binish up to 'em boldly and try 'em again, 
For women love sportsmen, as sportsmen love them. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

Should you chance to be blessed with a termagant wife, 
Who instead of the joy, is the plague of your life. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

When madam her small-shot begins to let go, 
Why draw on your boots, and away, tally-ho ! 

Tally-ho, &c. 

Ye poor forlorn devils, oppressed with the hip, 
Who thus the sweet moments of pleasure let slip. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

As soon as the whimsy your fancy suiTounds, 
You have nothing to do but get after the h6unds. 

TaUy-ho, &c. 

Come here, ye old codgers, whose nerves are unstrung. 
Come follow the hounds, and you'll hunt yourselves young. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

'Twill cure the short cough, and the rheumatic pain, 
Do but cry tally-ho, and you're all young again. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

If death, that old poacher, to smuggle you strives, 
Gret astride on your saddle, and hunt for your lives. 

Tally-ho, &c. 

Never heed his grim looks if your gelding can go, 
You cannot be caught while you cry tally-ho. 

Tally-ho, &c. 



WAKEN, LOEDS AND LADIES GAY. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 

On the mountain dawns the day. 

All the jolly chase is here. 

With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear ! 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 



SPORTING SONGS. 



233 



Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gi'ay, 

Springless in the dawn are steaming. 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, 

And foresters have busy been, 

To track the buck in thicket gi-een ; 

Now we come to chlnt our lay, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 




%^ 



LMi^^^k 




^h^^fWi 



v^m<^^4^ f 



Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
To the green-wood haste away ; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made, 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd 
You shall see him brought to bay, 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 



234 SPORTING SONGS. 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ; 

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, 

Eun a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman, who can haulk ? 

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; 

Think of this, and ris^ith day. 

Gentle lords and ladies gay. 

HUNTSMAN, BEST ! 
Sir Walter Scott. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumh'rous spells assail ye, 
Dream not with the rising sun. 
Bugles here shall sound reveille. 

Huntsman, rest ! 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den , 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying, 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 
How thy gallant steed lay dying. 

Huntsman, rest ! 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done. 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For at morning to assail ye. 
Here no bugles sound reveille. 

Huntsman, rest ! 

THE HUNTSMAN'S DIEGE. 
The smiling morn may light the sky, 
And joy may dance in beauty's eye, 

Aurora's beams to see ; 
The mellow horn's inspiring sound. 
May call the blithe companions round, 

But who shall waken thee? 

Eonald ? 
Thou ne'er wilt hear the mellow horn, 
Thou ne'er wilt quaff the breath of mom, 

Nor join thy friends with glee ; 
No glorious sun shall gild thy day, 
And beauty's fascinating ray. 

No more shall shine on thee, 

Eonald ! 




MAD SONGS. 

T is wortli attention," says Dr. Percy, in 
his "Eelics of English Poetry," "that 
the Enghsh have more songs and bal- 
lads on the subject of madness than any 
of their neighbours. Whether there 
be any truth in the insinuation that we 
are more liable to this calamity than 
other nations, or that our native gloomi- 
ness hath peculiarly recommended sub- 
jects of this class to our writers, we 
certainly do not find the same in 
the printed collections of French and 
Italian songs." Percy presents his readers with six mad songs, 
as specimens of the English taste for this peculiar class of 



236 MAD SONGS. 

compositions. Of those which follow in the present collection 
only two are included in his "Relics of English Poetry." 
It is certainly remarkable how much the genius of English 
writers loves to dally with, to philosophize upon, and to adorn the 
subject of madness. Of all Shakspeare's plays, Hamlet is un- 
doubtedly the most popular, and it is difficult to decide whether 
the half craze of Hamlet himself, or the utter prostration of the 
mind of the luckless Ophelia, is the more painfully and irresistibly 
attractive, or which of the two excites the most sympathy. The 
snatches of song sung by the mad Ophelia invariably melt an 
English audience to tears ; and the terrible madness of Lear, 
whenever it is represented on the stage — touches a chord in every 
heart. Sir Walter Scott, in his matchless fictions, has also made 
powerful use of madness, and of that state of mind — not actual 
lunacy, but not far removed from it — when reason trembles on the 
balance, and the spectator or the reader watches with excited and 
painful curiosity the moment when the tottering intellect shall be 
finally overthrown, and the madness — which was more than sus 
pected — shall be completely revealed. Many of our song-writers 
have from an early period availed themselves of the popular 
interest in subjects of this kind ; and musical composers have 
done their best to aid the efforts of song-writers in rendering 
them attractive. The literature of other countries, as Percy has 
remarked, offers no such examples, and we seek in vain among 
the songs of the northern or the southern nations of Europe for 
similar specimens. Even the genius of the Germans, so akin to 
our own, fails to cope with us in the delineation of the picturesque 
horrors and touching sorrows of the mad. If any allusion be 
made to the subject in the writings of the continental critics, it is 
but to give additional currency to the old joke about Englishmen, 
which Shakspeare has put into the mouth of the clown in Hamlet : 



Hamlet : Ay, marry! why was he sent into England? 

Clown : Why — because he was mad : he shall recover his wits 
there ; or if he do not, 'tis no great matter there. 

Hamlet: Why? 

Clown : 'Twill not be seen in him there ; there the men are all as 
mad as he. 



MAD SONGS. 237 

Many modem French poets and critics think that our Enghsh 
madness regularly returns with the month of November, and that 
suicides in that month are as plentiful as strawberries in June, or 
blackberries in September. It is our " sky" that does it, if we 
are to believe the French theory, and Waterloo-bridge was built on 
purpose to accommodate ladies and gentlemen afflicted with the 
national malady, and to render suicide both facile and agreeable. 
" Oh, Bedlam !" exclaims Auguste Barbier, in his " Lazare:" — 

" Oh Bedlam! monument de crainte et de douleur 
D'autres penetreront plus avant dans ta masse 
Quant a moi, je ne puis que detourner la face, 
Et dire que ton temple aux anti'es etouffans 
Est digne pour ses dieux d' avoir de tels enfans, 
Et que le ciel brumeux de la sombre AngleteiTe 
Peut servir largement de dome au sanctuahe." 

Leaving the French to their joke, and declining to speculate 
whether English madness be not perhaps the consequence of that 
great wit of which Pope speaks : — 

*' Great wit to madness siu-ely is alhed, 
And thin partitions do thek bounds divide," 

in which case the English nation might bear the gibes of their 
continental friends with more equanimity for the sake of the 
compliment involved ; — the following specimens of oui' ancient 
and modem lyrics of madness may be permitted to speak for 
themselves. 



238 MAD SONGS. 

THE MAD MAID'S SONG. 

Egbert Hbkrick, bom 1591. 

Good-morrow to the day so fair, 
Good-morrow, sir, to you ; 

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, 
Bedabbled all with dew. 

Good-morrow to this primrose too ; 

Good-morrow to each maid. 
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew 

Wherein my love is laid. 

Ah, woe is me — woe, woe is me. 

Alack and well-a-day ! 
For pity, sir, find out that bee 

Which bore my love away. 

I '11 seek him in your bonnet brave ; 

I '11 seek him in your eyes ; 
Nay, now I think they 've made his grave 

In the bed of strawberries. 

I '11 seek him there, I know ere this 
The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; 

But I will go, or send a kiss 
By you, sir, to awake him. 

Pray hurt him not ; though he be dead, 
He knows well who do love him. 

And who with green turfs rear his head. 
And who so rudely move him. 

He 's soft and tender, pray take heed ; 

With bands of cowslips bind him. 
And bring him home ; but 'tis decreed 

That I shall never find him. 



MAD SONGS 239 

THE MAD LOVER. 

Alexander Beome, bom 1620, died 1666. 

I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink — 

This many and many year ; 
And those three are plagues enough, one would think. 

For one poor mortal to bear. 
'Twas drink made me fall into love, 

And love made me run into debt ; 
And though I have struggled, and struggled and strove, 

I cannot get out of them yet. 

There 's nothing but money can cure me, 
And rid me of all my pain ; 
'Tv^dll pay all my debts, 
And remove all my lets ; 
And my mistress that cannot endure me, 

Will love me, and love me again : 
Then I '11 fall to loving and drinking again. 



THE MAD SHEPHERDESS. 

My lodging is on the cold ground, 

And very hard is my fare ; 
But that v^hich troubles me most is 

The unkindness of my dear ; 
Yet still I cry, turn love, 

And I prithee, love, turn to me, 
For thou art the man that I long for, 

And alack ! what remedy ! 

I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then, 

And I'll marry thee with a rush ring, 
My frozen hopes shall thaw then, 

And merrily we will sing ; 
turn to me my dear love. 

And I prithee, love, turn to me, 
For thou art the man who alone canst 

Procure my liberty. 



240 MAD SONGS, 

But if thou wilt harden thy heart still, 

And be deaf to my pitiful moan ! 
Then I must endure the smart still, 

And lie in my straw all alone ; 
Yet still I cry, turn love. 

And I prithee, love, turn to me. 
For thou art the man that alone art 

The cause of my misery. 

This song, of which the air is claimed both by the Scotch and the Irish, and wtFch base 
been rendered familiar to modem ears, by the beantiful version in Moore's Irish Melodies 

« Believe me if all those endearing young charms "—was introduced into Davenant's 

Comedy of " The Rivals," 1668; hut is probably still older. The phrase to " marry with 
a rush ring," is introduced in the ancient ballad of " The Winchester Wedding:"— 
•' And Tommy was loving to Kitty, 
And wedded her with a rush ring." 
ifTeaning a marriage without the rites of religion, and to be dissolved at the will of the 
parties as easily as a rush ring may be broken. 



TOM A BEDLAM, OK MAD TOM. 

William Basse; from " The English Dancing Master," 1651. 

Forth from my dark and dismal cell, 

Or from the dark abyss of hell, 

Mad Tom is come, to view the world again, 

To see if he can cure his distemper'd brain. 

Fears and cares oppress my soul ! 

Hark ! how the angry furies howl ; 

Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad, 

To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam bad. 

Thro' the world I wander night and day. 
To find my straggling senses; 

In angry mood I meet old Time, 
" With his pentateuch of tenses. 

When me he spies, away he flies, 
For time will stay for no man: 

In vain with cries I rend the skies. 
For pity is not common. 

Cold and comfortless I lie. 
Help! help! or else 1 die. 



MAD SONGS. 241 

Hark! I hear Apollo's team, 

The caiman 'gins to whistle, 
Chaste Dian' hends her bow. 

And the boar begins to bristle. 

Come, Yulcan, with tools and with tackle, 
And knock off my troublesome shackle ; 
Bid Charles make ready his wain, 
To bring me my senses again. 

Last night I heard the dog-star bark; 
Mars met Yenus in the dark; 
Limping Vulcan beat an iron bar, 
And furiously made at the god of war. 

Mars, with his weapon, laid about; 
Limping Yulcan had got the gout; 
His broad horns did so hang in his light. 
That he could not see to aim Ms blows aright. 

Mercury the nimble post of heaven, 

Stood still to see the quaiTel; 
Barrel-belly'd Bacchus, giant like, 

Bestride a strong beer barrel; 
To me he drank whole butts. 

Until he burst his guts; 
But mine were ne'er the wider. 
Poor Tom is very diy : 
A little drink for charity. 

Hark! I hear Actseon's hounds, 

The huntsman's whoop and hallo; 
Eingwood, Rockwood, Jowler, Bowman, 

All the chase do follow. 

The man in the moon drinks claret. 
Eats powder'd beef, turnip, and carrot; 
But a cup of old Malaga sack 
Will fii-e the bush at his back. 



" The words of the latter half of this song are not now sung. Another song, set 
by George Bayden, also called^' Mad Tom," has been ' stitched ' upon it." — Chapi-ell . 

o 



242 MAD SONGS. 

THE DISTK ACTED LOYER. 

Henjrt Caeet. 
I GO to the Elysian shade, 

Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me; 
Where nothing shall my rest invade, 

.But joy shall still surround me. 

I fly from Celia's cold disdain, 

From her disdain I fly; 
She is the cause of all my pain; 

For her alone I die. 

Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun, 
When he but half his radiant course has rim. 
When his meridian glories gaily shine, 
And gild all nature with a warmth divine. 

See yonder river's flowing tide. 
Which now so full appears; 
Those sti-eams, that do so swiftly glide, 
Are nothing but my tears. 

There I have wept till I could weep no more, 
And curst my eyes, when they have wept theii* store 
Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main, 
I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again. 

Pity my pains, 

Ye gentle swains I 
Cover me with ice and snow; 
I scorch, I bm*n, I flame, I glow! 

Fairies tear me. 

Quickly bear me, 
To the dismal shades below! 

Where yelling, and howling. 

And gi'umbling, and growling, 
Stiike the ear with horrid woe. 

Hissing snakes. 

Fiery lakes, 
Would be a pleasure, and a cure; 

Not all the hells 

Where Pluto dwells. 
Can give such pain as I endure. 



MAD SONGS. 243 

To some peaceful plain convey me, 
On a mossy carpet lay me, 
Fan me with ambrosial breeze; 
Let me die, and so have ease! 

The " Distracted Lover" was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music, 
at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little theatrical enter- 
tainments, which are enumerated in the " Companion to the Playhouse," &c. The 
sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a veiy melancholy catas- 
trophe, which was effected by his own hand. — Percy. 



OLD MAD TOM. 

Prom " The Thrush," 1749. 

I 'm old mad Tom, behold me ! 

My wits are quite unframed ; 
I 'm mad, I 'm sure, and past all cure, 

And in hopes of being proclaimed. 

I '11 mount the frosty mountains, 
And there I '11 skim the weather ; 

I '11 pluck the rainbow from the sky, 
And I '11 splice both ends together. 

I '11 mount the pride of marble. 
And there I '11 fright the gipsies ; 

And I '11 play at bowls with sun and moon, 
And win them with eclipses. 

I 'prentice was to Vulcan, 

And serv'd my master faithful. 

In making tools for jovial fools, 
But, ye gods, ye proved unfaithful. 

The stars pluck'd from their orbs, too, 

I '11 put them in my budget ; 
And if I 'm not a roaring boy. 

Then let the nation judge it. 



244 MAD SONGS. 

CRAZY JANE. 

M. G. Lewis, born 1773, died 1818. 

Why, fair maid, in every feature 

Are such signs of fear express'd ? 
Can a wand'ring wretched creature 

With such terror fill thy breast ? 
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee ? 

Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain ; 
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee ; 

Shun not, then, poor Crazy Jane. 

Dost thou weep to see my anguish ? 

Mark me, and avoid my woe : 
When men flatter, sigh, and languish, 

Think them false — I found them so. 
For I loved, ah ! so sincerely 

None could ever love again ; 
But the youth I loved so dearly 

Stole the wits of Crazy Jane. 

Fondly my young heart received him, 

Which was doom'd to love but one. 
He sigh'd — he vow'd — and I believed him, 

He was false — and I undone. 
From that hour has reason never 

Held her empire o'er my brain. 
Henry fled — with him for ever 

Fled the wits of Crazy Jane. 

Now forlorn and broken-hearted, 

And with frenzied thoughts beset, 
On that spot where last we parted, 

On that spot where first we met. 
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty, 

Still I slowly pace the plain ; 
While each passer by, in pity. 

Cries — God help thee, Crazy Jane ! 



MAD SONGS. 245 

OH, FOR MY TRUE LOVE. 

From the " Myrtle and the Vine," 1800. 

Down by the river there grows a green willow, 
Sing, oh ! for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! 

I '11 weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow. 
And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! 

When chill blows the wind, and tempests are beating, 

I '11 count all the clouds as I mark them retreating, 

For true lovers' joys, well-a-day, are as fleeting ; 
Sing all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! 

Maids, come in pity, when I am departed, 

Sing, oh ! for my true-love, my true -love, oh ! 
When dead on the bank I am found broken hearted. 

And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! 
Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing. 
Close to the stream where my tears once were flowing. 
And over my corse keep the green willow glowing, 

'Tis all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! 



THE DISTRACTED MAID. 

From " The Myrtle and the Vine." 

One morning very early, one morning in the spring, 
I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing ; 
Her chains she rattled on her hands while sweetly thus sung she ; 
" I love my love, because I know my love loves me. 

" cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea ! 
And cruel cruel was the ship that bore my love from me ! 
Yet I love his parents since they 're his, altho' they 've ruined me ; 
And I love my love, because I know my love loves me. 

" should it please the pitying powers, to call me to the sky, 
I 'd claim a guardian angel's charge around my love to fly; 
To guard him from all dangers how happy should I be ! 
For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. 



246 MAD SONGS. 

" I '11 make a strawy-garland, I '11 make it wondrous fine, 
With roses, lilies, daisies, I '11 mix the eglantine ; 
And I '11 present it to my love when he returns from sea, 
For I love my love because I know my love loves me. 

" Oh, if I were a little bird to build upon his breast, 
Or if I were a nightingale to sing my love to rest ! 
To gaze upon his lovely eyes all my reward should be ; 
For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. 

" Oh, if I were an eagle to soar into the sky ! 
I 'd gaze around with piercing eyes where I my love might spy 
But, ah ! unhappy maiden, that love you ne'er shall see : 
Yet I love my love, because I know my love loves me." 



THE MAD GIRL'S SONG. 

Thomas Dibdin. 
From the " Last Lays of the Three Dibdins," 1834. 

! TAKE me to your arms, love, 
For keen the wind doth blow ; 

! take me to your arms, my love. 
For bitter is my woe. 

She hears me not, she cares not, 

Nor will she list to me ; 
And here I lie in misery, 

Beneath the Willow Tree. 

1 once had gold and silver ; 

I thought them without end : 
I once had gold and silver ; 

I thought I had a friend. 
My wealth is lost, my friend is false, 

My love is stol'n from me ; 
And here I lie in misery. 

Beneath the Willow Tree. 



MAD SONGS. 24T 



THE MANIAC. 



Partly by G. M. Lewis, Author of "The Monk," and partly by Henky Rpssell, 
Composer of the Music. 

Hush ! 'tis the night-watch : he guards my lonely cell ; 

He comes, he comes this way ! 

Yes ; 'tis the night-watch ; I mark his glimmering lamp ; 

I see its distant ray. 

Oh, release me ! oh, release me ! 

No, by Heaven — no, by Heaven, I am not mad I 

I loved her sincerely, I loved her too dearly, 

I loved her in sorrow, in joy, and in pain ; 

But my heart is forsaken, yet ever will awaken. 

The mem'ry of bliss which will ne'er come again. 

I see her dancing in the hall, I see her dancing in the hall I 

No, by Heaven — no, by Heaven, I am not mad ! 

Oh, release me, &c. 

He quits the grate, he turns the key ; 

He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 

His glimmering lamp still, still I see. 

And all is gloom again. 

Cold, bitter cold ; no life, no light ; 

Life, all thy comforts once I had. 

But here I 'm chained this freezing night ; 

No, by Heaven — no, by Heaven, I am not mad ! 

Oh, release me, &c. 

For lo, you ! while I speak, 

Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare 

He sees me now ; with dreadful shriek 

He whirls me in the air ; 

Horror ! the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad. 

Aye, laugh, ye fiends — laugh, laugh, ye fiends ! 

Yes, by Heaven — they 've driven me mad ! 

I see her dancing in the hall — 

Oh, release me— oh, release me ! 

Yes, by Heaven — yes, by Heaven, they 've driven me mad ! 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 




UNDER THE GREEN WOOD TREE. 

William Shakspeake ; from " As You Like it." 

Under the green-wood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 

Unto the sweet bird's throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 

Here shall he see 

No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun, 

And loves to lie i' the sun ; 

Seeking the food he eats. 

And pleas'd with what he gets. 

Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 

Here shall he see 

No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 249 

WINTER. 

William Shakspeabe, from " Love's Labour Lost," 

When icicles hang by the wall. 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in the pail ; 
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-whoo ! 
Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! a merry note 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marion's nose looks red and raw ; 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-whoo ! 
Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



BLOW, BLOW THOU WINTER WIND, 

William Shakspeabe, from " As You Like it" 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind, 

As man's ingratitude ! 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh, ho ! sing heigh, ho ! unto the green holly, 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly, 
Then heigh, ho ! the holly I 
This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ; 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 



250 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

As benefits forgot ! 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember 'd not. 
Heigh, ho ! &c. &c. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Crabbed Age and Youth 

Cannot live together, 
Youth is full of pleasure-^ 

Age is full of care. 
Youth like summer morn — 

Age like winter weather ; 
Youth like summer, brave— ^ 

Age like winter bare ; 
Youth is full of sport — 
Age's breath is short ; 

Youth is nimble. Age is lame, 
Youth is hot and bold — 
Age is weak and cold ; s 

Youth is wild, and Age is tame ; 
Age, I do abhor thee — 
Youth, I do adore thee, 

Oh, my love — my love is gone. 
Age, I do defy thee. 
Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee ; 

Methinks thou stay'st too long. 

" This song," says Bishop Percy, " is found in the little collection of Shakspeare's 
sonnets, entitled * The Passionate Pilgrim.' In the ' Garland of the Good-will,' it is 
reprinted with the addition of four more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner 



IN PRAISE OF MELANCHOLY. 

Hence all you vain delights. 
As short as are the nights 
Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see 't, 

But only melancholy ; 

Oh, sweetest melancholy ! 



MISCELLANEOFS SONGS. 251 

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fasten'd to the ground, 
A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! 

Fountain-heads, and pathless groves. 

Places which pale passion loves ! 

Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 

Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 

A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 

These are the sounds we feed upon ; 

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; 

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 

Milton was possibly under some obligations to this beautiful song, when he wrote his 
" II Penseroso." Hazlitt calls it " the perfection of tliis kind of writing." (Lectures on 
Dram. Lit. 1840, p. 208.) It is generally attributed to Fletcher, who introduced it in the 
play of " The Nice Valour," act iii. sc. 3 ; but the author was more probably Dr. William 
Strode. See " Notes and Queries," vol. i. 



LOSS IN DELAYS. 

ROBEBT Southwell, bom 1562, died 1596. 

Shun delays, they breed remorse, 

Take thy time, while time is lent thee ; 

Creeping snails have weakest force. 
Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee : 

Good is best when soonest WTought, 

Lingering labour comes to nought. 

Hoist up sail, while gale doth last, 

Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure ; 

Seek not time when time is past, 
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure : 

After- wits are dearly bought, 

Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. 

Time wears all his locks before. 

Take thou hold upon his forehead ; 

When he flies he turns no more, 
And behind, his scalp is naked : 

Works adjourn'd have many stays, 

Long demurs breed new delays. 



252 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Seek thy salve while sore is green, 
Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing ; 

After-cures are seldom seen, 

Often sought, scarce ever chancing : 

Time and place give best advice, 

Out of season, out of price. 

PANGLOEI'S WOOING SONG. 

Giles Fletcher, bom 1588, died 1623. 
Love is the blossom where there blows, 
Every thing that lives or grows ; 
Love doth make the heavens to move, 
And the sun doth burn in love : 
Love, the strong and weak doth yoke, 
And makes the ivy climb the oak. 
Under whose shadows, lions wild, 
Soften'd by love, gi'ow tame and mild. 
Love, no med'cine can appease ; 
He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
Not all the skill his wounds can stanch. 
Not all the sea his thirst can quench. 
Love did make the bloody spear 
Once a leafy coat to wear, 
While in his leaves there shrouded lay 
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play ; 
And of all love's joyful flame 
I the bud and blossom am. 
Only lend thy knee to me, 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be ! ' 

See, see, the flowers that below 
Now freshly as the morning blow. 
And of all, the virgin rose, 
That as bright Aurora shows ; 
How they all unleaved die 
Losing their virginity : 
Like unto a summer shade, 
But now born, and now they fade. 
Every thing doth pass away ; 
There is danger in delay. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 25.'5 

Come, come, gather then the rose ; 
Gather it, or it you lose. 
All the sand of Tagus' shore, 
In my bosom casts its ore : 
All the valleys' swimming corn. 
To my house is yearly borne : 
Every grape of every vine 
Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; 
While ten thousand kings, as proud 
To carry up my train, have bow'd, 
And a world of ladies send me 
From my chamber to attend me : 
All the stars in heaven that shine, 
And ten thousand more, are mine. 

Only bend thy knee to me. 

Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 



THE COMMENDATION OF MUSIC. 

William Strode, bom 1600, died 1644. 

Then whispering strains do softly steal 
With creeping passion through the heart, 
And at every touch we feel 
Our pulses beat, and bear a part ; 

When threads can make 

A heart-string quake ; — 

Philosophy 

Can scarce deny, 

The soul consists of harmony. 

Oh, lull me, lull m.e, charming air. 
My senses rock'd with wonder sweet ! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are, 
Soft like a spirit are thy feet. 

Grief, who need fear 

That hath an ear ] 

Down let him lie, 

And slumbering die, 
And change his soul for harmony. 

From a Miscellany, entitled " Wit Restoi-ed," 12mo. published 1658. 



254 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

SWEET DAY, SO COOL. 

Geoege Heebert, bom 1593, died 1632. 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, — 
For thou must die ! 

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
Thy root is ever in its grave, — 

And thou must die ! 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
My music shows you have your closes, — 
And all must die ! 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like season'd timber, never gives, 
But when the whole world turns to coal, 
Then chiefly lives ! 



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 

RiCHAED Lovelace, bom 1618, died 1658. 

When love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangl'd in her hair, 

And fetter'd to her eye. 
The " birds " that wanton in the air, 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round. 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with rouses bound, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wines we steep, 

When healths and draughts are free, — 
Fishes that tipple in the deep, 

Know no such liberty. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 255 

When like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my king : 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, — 
Enlarged winds that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for a hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free,— 
Angels alone, — that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 
This song to Althea will live as long as the English language. — Kobeet Southey., 



HOPE. 

From Alison's " Hour's Recreations in Music," 1606. 
In hope a king doth go to war ; 

In hope a lover lives full long ; 
In hope a merchant sails full far; 

In hope just men do suffer wrong ; 
In hope the ploughman sows his seed : 
Thus hope helps thousands at their need. 
Then faint not, heart, among the rest ; 
Whatever chance, hope thou the best. 



MAN'S MORTALITY. 

Simon Wastell, from the * Microbiblia," 1623. 
Like as the damask rose you see, 
Or like the blossom on the tree. 
Or like the dainty flower in May, 
Or like the morning of the day. 
Or like the sun, or like the shade. 
Or like the gourd which Jonas had. 



256 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

E'en such is man ; — whose thread is spun, 
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — 
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth. 
The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 
The sun sets, the shadow flies. 
The gourd consumes, — and man he dies ! 

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, 

Or like a tale that 's new begun. 

Or like the bird that 's here to-day, 

Or like the pearled dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span, 

Or like the singing of a swan. 

E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath. 

Is here, now there, in life and death. — 

The grass withers, the tale is ended, 

The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended. 

The hour is short, the span is long, 

The swan's near death, — man's life is done ! 



HASTE THEE, NYMPH. 



John Milton. 

Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity ; 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles. 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 



The music of this song was ^ composed by Handel for the Oratorio of ''Comus," and 
adapted to this purpose from the beautiful poem of " L' Allegro " 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS 



257 



\ > I / / 




MAY MORNING. 



John Milton. 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! • 

Woods and groves are of thy dressing : 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing, 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long ! 
P2 



258 , MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 




GO, LOVELY ROSE. 

Edmund Waller, born 1603, died 1687 

Go, lovely Rose ! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me. 

That now she knows, 

When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that 's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That had'st thou sprung 

In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired : 
Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired. 

And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee, — 

How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 259 

[Yet, though thou fade, 

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 
And teach the maid 

That goodness Time's rude hand defies, — 
That virtue lives when beauty dies.] 

The last stauza vra,s added by Henry Kirke White, and is the cro'vvTiing grace of a 
beautiful poem, which would scarcely have been complete without it. 



THE FAIRIES' SONG. 

AnonjTnous. From the Tisall Poetry, temp. Charles I, 

We dance on hills above the wind, 
And leave our footsteps there behind. 
Which shall to after ages last, 
AVhen all our dancing days are past. 

Sometimes we dance upon the shore, 
To whistling vdnds and seas that roar, 
Then we make the wind to blow, 
And set the seas a-dancing too. 

The thunder's noise is our delight, 
And lightnings make us day by night ; 
And in the air we dance on high, 
To the loud music of the sky. 

About the moon we make a ring. 
And falling stars we wanton fling. 
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy, 
While what frights others is our joy 

But when we 'd hunt away our cares. 
We boldly mount the galloping spheres 
And riding so from east to west, 
We chase each nimble zodiac beast. 

Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds, 
With thick black clouds to rest our heads. 
And flood the earth with our dark showers, 
That did but sprinkle these our bowers. 



26.0 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Thus, having done with orbs and sky, 
Those mighty spaces vast and high, 
Then down we come and take the shapes, 
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes. 

Next turn'd to mites in cheese, forsooth. 
We get into some hollow tooth ; 
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall, 
We frisk and dance, the devil and all. 

Then we change our wily features, 
Into yet far smaller creatures. 
And dance in joints of gouty toes. 
To painful tunes of groans and woes. 



IN SUMMER TIME. 

Tom D'Uefey, born 1628, died 1723. 

In summer time, when flow'rs do spring, 

And birds sit on each tree, 
Let lords and knights say what they will, 
There 's none so merry as we. 

There 's Tom with Nell, 

Who bears the bell, 

And Willy with pretty Betty ; 

how they skip it. 

Caper and trip it, 

Under the greenwood tree ! 

Our music is a little pipe. 
That can so sweetly play ; 

We hire old Hal from Whitsuntide 
Till latter Lammas-day; 
On Sabbath days, 
And holy-days, ^ 

After evening prayer comes he ; 
And then we skip it. 
Caper, and trip it, 
Under the greenwood tree. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS."' 261 

" Come, play us Adam and Em^'' says Dick, 

" What 's that ? " says little Pipe ; 
" The Beginning of the World,'"^ quoth Dick, 
" For we are dancing-ripe ; " 

" Is 't that you call? 

Then have at all ! "— 

He played with merry glee ; 

then did we skip it, 

Caper, and trip it, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

O'er hills and dales, to Whitsun-ales, 

We dance a merry fytte ; 
When Susan sweet with John doth meet, 
She gives him hit for hit — 

From head to foot 

She holds him to 't. 

And jumps as high as he ; 

how they spring it, 

Flounce and fling it. 

Under the greenwood tree ! 

My lord's son must not be forgot, 

So full of merry jest ; 
He laughs to see the girls so hot, 
And jumps it with the rest. 

No time is spent 

With more content. 

In camp, or court, or city. 

So long as we skip it. 

Frisk it and trip it, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

We oft go to Sir William's ground, 

And a rich old cub is he ; 
And there we dance, around, around. 
But never a penny we see. 
From thence we get 
To Somerset, 

1 A favourite dance-tune in the seventeenth century. 



262 ' MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Where men are frolic and free, 
And there do we skip it, 
Frisk it and trip it, 
Under the greenwood tree. 

We fear no plots of Jews or Scots, 
For we are jolly swains ; 

With plough and cow, and barley-mow> 
We bury all our brains. 
No city cares, 
Nor merchant's fears 
Of wreck or piracy ; 
Therefore we skip it, 
Frisk it and trip it. 
Under the greenwood tree. 

On meads and lawns we trip like fauns, 

Like fillies, kids, and lambs ; 
We have no twinge to make us cringe, 
Or crinkle in the hams ; 

When the day is spent, 
With one consent. 
Again we all agree, 
To caper and skip it. 
Trample and trip it, 
Under the greenwood tree. 



SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN. ' 

From " The English Dancing-Master ; or, Plain and Easy Rules 
Country Dances," 1651. 

As I went through the North country, 
I heard a merry meeting ; 

A pleasant toy, and full of joy. 
Two noblemen were greeting. 

And as they walked forth to shoot, 

Upon a summer's day. 
They met another nobleman. 

With whom they had a fray. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

His name was Sir John Barley-corn, 

He dwelt down in a dale ; 
Who had a kinsman dwelt him nigh, 

They called him Thomas Good-ale. 

Another named Richard Beer, 

Was ready at that time ; 
Another worthy knight was there, 

Call'd Sir William White-wine. 

Some of them fought in a blackjack, 

Some of them in a can ; 
But the chiefest in a black pot, 

Like a worthy nobleman. 

Sir Barley-corn fought in a bowl, 

Who won the victory ; 
Which made them all to fume and swear 

That Barley-corn should die. 

Some said* "kill him," some said " drown, 
Others wish to hang him high, 

For as many as follow Barley-corn, 
Shall surely beggars die. 

Then with a plough they ploughed him up. 

And this they did devise, 
To bury him quick within the earth, 

And swore he should not rise. 

With harrows strong they combed him, 

And burst clods on his head, 
A joyful banquet then was made, 

When Barley-corn was dead. 

He rested still within the earth. 

Till rain from skies did fall. 
Then he grew up in branches green, 

Which sore amazed them all. 

And so grew up till Midsummer ; 

He made them all afraid. 
For he was sprouted up on high, 

And got a goodly beard. 



263 



264 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Then he grew till St. James's-tide, 
His countenance was wan ; 

For he was grown unto his strength. 
And thus became a man. 

With hooks and eke with sickles keen, 
Unto the fields they hied, 

They cut his legs off by the knees, 
And made him wounds full wide. 

Thus bloodily they cut him down. 
From place where he did stand, 

And like a thief for treachery. 
They bound him in a band. 

So then they took him up again, 

According to his kind. 
And packed him up in several stacks, 

To wither with the wind. 

« 
And with a pitchfork that was sharp, 

They rent him to the heart. 

And like a thief for treason vile. 

They bound him in a cart. 

And tending him with weapons strong, 
Unto the town they hie. 

And straight they moor'd him in a mow. 
And there they let him lie. 

Then he lay groaning by the walls. 
Till all his wounds were sore ; 

At length they took him up again. 
And cast him on the floor. 

They hired two with holly clubs. 

To beat at him at once ; 
They thwacked so hard on Barley-corn 

That flesh fell from his bones. 

And then they took him up again. 

To fulfil women's mind. 
They dusted and they sifted him, 

'Till he was almost blind. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 265 

And then they knit him in a sack, 

Which grieved him full sore ; 
They steep'd him in a vat, God wot, 

For three days' space and more. 

And then they took him up again. 

And laid him for to dry, 
They cast him on a chamber-floor, 

And swore that he should die. 

They rubbed him and stirred him. 

And oft did toil and turn, 
The malt-man likewise vowed his death, 

His body he would burn. 

They pulled and hauled him up in spite. 

And threw him on a kiln. 
And dried him o'er a fire bright. 

The more to work their will. 

Then to the mill they forced him straight, 

Where, as they bruised his bones, 
The miller swore to murder him 

Betwixt a pair of stones. 

The last time when they took him up, 

They sei-ved him worse than that. 
For with hot scalding liquor store. 

They washed him in a vat. 

But not content with this, God wot. 

They wrought him so much harm. 
With cruel threat they promised next 

To beat him in a barn. 

And lying in this danger deep, 

For fear that he should quarrel, 
They took him straight out of the vat. 

And turned him in a barrel. 

And then they set a tap to him ; — 

Even thus his death begun, 
They drew out every drop of blood, 

Whilst any drop would run. 
Q 



266 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Some brought jacks upon their backs, 
Some brought bill and bow, 

And every man his weapon had, 
Barley-corn to overthrow. 

When Sir John Good-ale heard of this 
He came with mickle might. 

And then he took their tongues away, 
Their legs, or else their sight. 

Sir John, at least, in each respect 
So paid them all their hire, 

That some lay sleeping by the walls, 
Some tumbling in the mire. 

Some lay groaning by the walls. 
Some fell in the street downright, 

The best of them did scarcely know. 
What he had done o'er-night. 

All you good wives that brew good ale, 
God keep you from all teen. 

But if you put too much water in, 
The devil put out your eyne ! 



This ballad, of which a modem version, slightly altered from the above by Robert Burns, 
has become more popular than its prototype, was originally sung to the tune of " Stingo," 
or " Gyle of Barley." The same tune was afterwards called " Cold and Raw." 

" This tune," says Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music, " was greatly admired by 
Queen Mary, the consort of King "William ; and she once affronted Purcell by requesting to 
have it sung to her, he being present. The story is as follows :— The Queen having a mind, 
one afternoon, to be entertained with music, sent to Mr. Gosling, then one of her Chapel, and 
afterwards Sub-Dean of St. Paul's, to Henry Purcsll, and to Mrs. Arabella Hunt, who had 
a very fine voice, and an admirable hand on the lute, with a request to attend her. They 
obeyed her commands. Mr. Gosling and Mrs. Hunt sang several compositions of Purcell, 
who accompanied them on the harpsichord. At length, the Queen, beginning to grow tired, 
asked Mrs. Hunt if she could not sing the ballad of ' Cold and Raw;' Mrs. Hunt answered, 
yes, and sung it to her lute. Purcell was all the while sitting at the harpsichord, unem- 
ployed, and not a little nettled at the Queen's preference of a vulgar ballad to his music, 
but seeing her Majesty delighted with this tune, he determined that she should hear it 
upon another occasion ; and, accordingly, in the next birth-day song; viz. — that for the 
year, 1692 ; he composed an air to the words ' May her bright example chace vice in 
troops out of the land,' the bass whereof is the tune to ' Cold and Raw.' " 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

THE FAIRY QUEEN. 

From " Percy's Relics." 

Come, follow, follow me, 
You, fairy elves that be : 
Which circle on the green, 
Come, follow Mab your queen. 
Hand in hand let 's dance around, 
For this place is fairy ground. 

When mortals are at rest, 
And snoring in their nest ; 
Unheard, and unespied. 
Through key-holes we do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves, 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And, if the house be foul 
With platter, dish, and bowl. 
Up stairs we nimbly creep, 
And find the sluts asleep : 
There we pinch their arms and thighs 
None escapes, nor none espies. 

But if the house be swept. 
And from uncleanness kept. 
We praise the household maid. 
And duly she is paid : 
For we use before we go 
To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a mushroom's head 
Our table-cloth we spread ; 
A grain of rye, or wheat. 
Is manchet, which we eat : 
Pearly drops of dew we drink, 
In acorn cups fill'd to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snails. 
Between two cockles stew'd, 
Is meat that 's easily chew'd ; 

Q 2 



267 



268 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, 
Do make a dish that 's wondrous nice. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, 

Serve for our minstrelsy ; 

Grace said, we dance a while. 

And so the time beguile : 
And if the moon doth her head. 
The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 

On tops of dewy grass 

So nimbly do we pass. 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when we do walk : 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 

We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning fairies. It will 
afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to 
their origin. Whoever considers how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they 
have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those who 
fetch them from the East so late as the time of the Crusades. Whereas it is well known 
that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the 
existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits 
whom they called Duergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many wonderful 
performances, far exceeding human art. Vid. Hervarer Saga Olaj Verelj. 1675. Hickes 
Thesaur, &c. This song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book 
entitled " The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, &c," Lond. 1658. 8vo.— Dr. Peecy. 



AWAY WITH GRIEF. 

From Hugh Cbompton's " Pierides, or the Muses Mount," 1658 

Away, thou gnawing worm, fond grief ! 

Away from me, away : 
Thy absence is my sweet relief ; 

Then flee, without delay. 
He that gives way to woe and sorrow, 
May grieve to-day, and mourn to-morrow. 

Go now into another zone. 

Where mortal brains are light. 
And press them down ; — I 've need of none, 

Since I have felt thy weight : 
He that shall change his frown to laughter,- 
May laugh to-day, and sing hereafter: 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 209 

I tried you both, and know you well, 

But do not like you so : 
A light heart has no parallel ; 

But oh ! the pangs of woe ! 
Yet woe the heart can never shoot, 
If thought be not the porter to 't. 

Suppose you, then, that all is good. 

And in that thought repose ; 
This will allay that fiery blood, 

Which in thy body flows : 
And mark me now, — for this is chief, — 
Nothing on earth requireth grief. 

If accident should chance to fall, 

It falls from heaven above ; 
Then let no poverty or thrall, 

Your soaring spirits move : 
Nothing but sin can grief require ; 
Then grieve for sin,— else grief, expire. 



THE JOVIAL BEGGARS. 

From " Playford's Choice Aires," 1660. 

There was a jovial beggar, 

He had a wooden leg. 
Lame from his cradle. 

And forced for to beg. 
And a begging we will go, will go, will go. 
And a begging we will go. 

A bag for his oatmeal. 

Another for his salt, 
And a pair of crutches 

To show that he can halt. 
And a begging, &c. 



270 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

A bag for his wheat, 

Another for his rye, 
And a little bottle by his side, 

To drink when he 's a dry. 
And a begging, &c. 

Seven years I begged 

For my old master Wild, 

He taught me to beg 
When I was but a child. 
And a begging, &c. 

I begged for my master, 
And got him store of pelf. 

But, Jove now be praised, 
I 'm begging for myself. 

And a begging, &c. 

In a hollow tree 

I live and pay no rent — 

Providence provides for me, 
And I am well content. 

And a begging, &c. 

Of all the occupations, 
A beggar's life 's the best, 

For, whenever he 's a-weary, 
He can lay him down to rest. 
And a begging, &c. 

I fear no plots against me, 

I live in open cell, 
Then who would be a king 

When beggars live so well ? 

And a begging we will go, &c. 



This song is the prototype of many 6thers in the English language, including the popu- 
lar favourite, " A Hunting we will go," which appears among the sporting songs in thi 
volume, and " A Sailing we will go," which appears among the sea songs. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 271 

THE PRAISE OF MILK. 

From " Playford's Musical Companion," Part II., 1687. 

In praise of a dairy I purpose to sing, 

But all things in oi-der — first, God save the King. 
And the Queen, I may say, 
Who every May-day, ^ 

Has many fine dairy-maids, all fine and gay : 

Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme, 

Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream. 

The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe. 
Was Adam's own wife, our great grandmother Eve, 

Who oft milked a cow, 

As well she knew how, 

Tho' butter was then not so cheap as 'tis now : 
She hoarded no butter nor cheese on a shelf, 
For butter and cheese in those days made itself. 

In that age or time there was no horrid money, 

Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey. 

No queen could you see, 

Of the highest degree, 

But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she : 
Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat. 
And in plenty and peace all their joys were complete. 

Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce, 
For a thousand of dainties it's daily in use ; 

Now a pudding, I'll tell ye, 

Ere it goes in the belly, 

Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly : 
For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk. 
Is a citizen's wife, without satin or silk. 

In the virtues of milk there is more to be muster'd 
Than charming delights both of cheese cake and custard, 

For at Tottenham Court 

You can have no sport. 

Unless you have custard and cheese-cake too for 't. 
And what's the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh, 
Unless he hath got a great custard to quatf. 



^72 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Both pancake and fritter, of milk have good store, 

But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more. 

No state you can think 

Though you study and wink, 

From the lusty sack-posset to pour posset drink, 
But milk's the ingredient, the' sack's ne'er the worse. 
For 'tis sack makes the man, tho' 'tis milk makes the nurse. 



THE OLD MAN'S WISH. 

Dr. Walter Pope, bom abont 1630, died 1714. 

If I live to grow old, for I find I go down. 

Let this be my fate : — in a country town. 

May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, 

And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. 

May I govern my passions with absolute sway. 

And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, 

Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 

Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook. 
With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look ; 
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile. 
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. 
May I govern my passions with absolute sway. 
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 

With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more 
Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before ; 
With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or veal. 
And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal. 
May I govern my passions with absolute sway, 
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 

With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor. 
And remnants of Latin to welcome the Vicar ; 
With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine,^ 
To drink the King's health as oft as I dine. 



Some versions substitute for this line, the following :- 
"With a hidden reserve of good Burguncly wine." 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 273 

May I govern my passions with absolute sway, 
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away, 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 

AVith a courage undaunted may I face my last day ; 
And when I am dead may the better sort say. 
In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, 
" He 's gone, and has left not behind him his fellow : 
For he govern'd his passions with absolute sway, 
And grew wiser and better, as strength wore away. 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay." 

It seems odd to modem notions, that so sensible a gentleman — vlio governed his 
passions with absolute sway — should have ever " got mellow " at aU. Drunkenness, 
however, was considered a venial vicB in those days, by the few who did not consider it a 
positive virtue "in the evening." 



GENTLY STIR. 

A parody, attributed to Deax Swift, on a popular song, by A. Bradley (circ. 1740) 
beginning " Gently strike the warbling lyre." 

Gently stir, and blow the fire. 

Lay the mutton down to roast ; 
Dress it quickly, I desire ; 

In the dripping put a toast. 
That I hunger may remove ; 
Mutton is the meat I love. 

On the dresser see it lie. 

Oh ! the charming white and red ! 
Finer meat ne'er met my eye, 

On the sweetest grass it fed : 
Let the jack go quickly round. 
Let me have it nicely brown'd. 

On the table spread the cloth, 

Let the knives be shai-p and clean : 

Pickles get and sallad both, 

Let them each be fresh and green : 

With small beer, good ale, and wine, 

Oh ! ye gods, how I shall dine ! 

Several attempts have been made to raise eating into the dignity which drinking has 
so long enjoyed — of being a theme for song — but all in vain. " The Roast Beef of Old 
England" is the only exception, amid a mass of failures. 



274 ^ MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 

William Collins. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 

Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 
And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No wither'd witch shall here be seen, 
No goblins lead their nightly crew; 

But female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft at evening hours 
Shall kindly lend his little aid. 

With hoary moss and gather'd flowers 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or 'midst the chase upon the plain. 
The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
For thee the tear be dul}'- shed ; 

Beloved, till life can charm no more, 
And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead. 



SWEET MAY. 

Erasmus Daewin, bom 1721, died 1802. 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky, 

Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold 

Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, 

And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 275 

For Thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, 

For Thee descends the sunny shower, 
The rills in softer murmurs flow, 

And brighter blossoms gem the bower. 

Light Graces, drest in flowery wreaths. 

And tiptoe Joys their hands combine ; 
And Love his sweet contagion breathes. 

And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. 

Warm with new life the glittering throngs. 

On quivering fin and rustling wing, 
Delighted join their votive songs, 

And hail thee, Goddess of the Spring. 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

De. Peecy, Editor of " Percy's Reliques." 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walk'd forth to tell his beads ; 

And he met with a lady fair 
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 

Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, 

I pray thee tell to me. 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true love thou didst see. 

" And how should I know your true love, 

From many another one?" 
'* 0, by his cockle hat, and staif. 

And by his sandal shoon. 

But chiefly by his face and mien. 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, 

And eyes of lovely, blue." 



276 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

" lady, he is dead and gone ! 
Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
And at his head a green grass turf. 
And at his heels a stone. 

Within these holy cloisters long 
He languish'd, and he died. 

Lamenting of a lady's love. 
And 'plaining of her pride. 

Here bore him barefaced on his bier 
Six proper youths and tall. 

And many a tear bedew'd his grave 
Within yon kirk-yard wall." 

** And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! 
' And art thou dead and gone ! 

And didst thou die for love of me ? 
Break, cruel heart of stone !" 

** weep not, lady, weep not so : 
Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 
Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 

" do not, do not, holy friar. 
My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth, 
That e'er won lady's love. 

And now, alas ! for thy sad loss, 
I '11 evermore weep and sigh : 

For thee I only wish'd to live. 
For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 
Thy sorrow is in vain : 
For violets pluck'd the sweetest show'rs 
Will ne'er make grow again. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 277 

Our joys as winged dreams do fly, 

Why then should sorrow last ? 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

" say not so, thou holy friar ; 
I pray thee, say not so : 
For since my true-love died for me, 
'Tis meet my tears should flow. 

And will he never come again ? 

Will he ne'er come again 1 
Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave : 

For ever to remain. 

His cheek was redder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he ! 
But he is dead and laid in his grave : 

Alas, and woe is me ! " 

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 
Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land. 
To one thing constant never. 

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found. 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

" Now say not so, thou holy friar, 
I pray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart : 
he was ever true ! 

And art thou dead, thou much -loved youth. 

And didst thou die for me ? 
Then farewell home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will be. 

But first upon my true-love's grave 

My weary limbs I '11 lay, 
And thrice I '11 kiss the green-grass turf, 

That wraps his breathless clay." 



278 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

" Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile 
Beneath this cloister wall : 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, 
And drizzly rain doth fall." 

" stay me not, thou holy friar ; 
stay me not, I pray ; 
No drizzly rain that falls on me, 
Can wash my fault away." 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again. 
And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gown of gray 
Thy own true-love appears. 

Here forced by grief, and hopeless love. 

These holy weeds I sought ; 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 

But haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet past away, 
Might I still hope to win thy love, 

No longer would I stay." 

** Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
Once more unto my heart ; 
For since I have found thee, lovely youth, 
We never more will part. ' ' 



Dispersed throngh Shakspeare's plays are innnmerable little fragments of ancient 
ballads, the entire copies of which conld not be recovered. Many of these being of the 
most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor of "Percy's Kehques" was tempted 
to select some of them and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together and 
form them into a little Tale, which is here submitted to the reader's candour.— One small 
fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.— Pekcy. Another fragment was 
taken from Shakspeare. — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 279 



MERRILY GOES THE MILL. 

Geoege Colman. 

Merrily rolls the mill-stream oiij 

Merrily goes the mill, — 
And merry to-night shall be my song, 
As ever the gay lark's trill. 

While the stream shall flow, 

And the mill shall go, 
And my garners are bravely stored : 

Come all who will, 

There 's a welcome still 
At the joyful miller's board. 

Well may the miller's heart be light — 

Well may his song be gay ; 
For the rich man's smile, and the poor man's pray'r 
Have been his for many a day. 

And they bless the name 

Of the miller's dame 
In cots where the lowly moum ; 

For want and woe 

At her coming go, 
And joy and peace return. 

Fair is the miller's daughter, too, 

With her locks of golden hair — 
With her laughing eye and sunny brow, 
Still better is she than fair. 
She hath lightened toil 
With her winning smile. 
And if ever his heart was sad. 
Let her sing the song 
He hath loved so long, 
And the miller's heart was glad. 

Merrily rolls the mill-stream on, &c. 



280 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 



THE MILLER. 



Charles Highmore. 
Written for Dodsley's entertainment—" The King and Miller of Mansfield." 

How happy a state does the miller possess ! 
Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less ; 
On his mill and himself he depends for support, 

Which is better than servilely cringing at court. 

«»■ 

What though he all dusty and whiten'd does go, 
The more he 's bepowder'd, the more like a beau ; 
A clown in his dress may be honester far 
Than a courtier, who struts in his garter and star. 

Though his hands are so daub'd they 're not fit to be seen. 

The hands of his betters are not very clean — 

A palm more polite may as dirtily deal ; 

Gold, in handling, will stick to the fingers like meal. 

What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks, 
He cribs, without scruple, from other men's sacks : 
In this of right noble examples he brags. 
Who borrow as freely from other men's bags. 

Or should he endeavour to heap an estate, 
In this he would mimic the tools of the state ; 
Whose aim is alone their own coffers to fill, 
As all his concern 's to bring grist to the mill. 

He eats when he 's hungry, he drinks when he 's dry, 
And down when he 's weary contented does lie ; 
Then rises up cheerful to work and to sing : 
If so happy a miller, then who 'd be a king ? 

The " Miller" eeems to have been a favourite character with our song writers from 
the earliest times, and to have been generally depicted as a model of sturdy independence. 
There is a song upon the subject in the poems of John Cunningham. See Bell's edition of 
the " British Poets," vol. ciii. The sentiment in the two concluding lines of the " Miller " 
is borrowed from the more ancient song of the " Jovial Beggars." 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 281. 

I 

THE PRETTY PARROT 

From Aikin's " Vocal Poetry.' 

Pretty Parrot, say, when I was away, 
And in dull absence pass'd the day, 
What at home was doing ? 
" With chat and play 
All were gay, 
Night and day, 
Good cheer and mirth renewing ; 
Singing, laughing all, like pretty pretty Poll." 

Was no fop so rude, boldly to intrude, 
And like a saucy lover would 
Court and tease my lady 1 
" A thing, you know. 
Made for show, 
Call'd a beau, 
Near her' was always ready ; 
Ever at her call, like pretty pretty Poll." 



Tell me with what air he approach'd the fair. 
And how she could with patience bear 
All he did and utter'd. 
" He still address'd. 
Still caress'd, 
Kiss'd and press'd, 
Sung, prattled, laugh'd, and flatter'd ; 
Well received in all, like pretty pretty Poll." 

Did he go away at the close of day, 
Or did he ever use to stay 
In a corner dodging ? 
" The want of light, 
When 't was night, 
Spoil'd my sight ; 
But I believe his lodging 
Was within her call, like pretty pretty Poll." 

This lively and sin^lar piece was probably popular at the time of writing the " Beggar's 
Opera," M^hich has a song to the same measiire. It certainly merits preservation.— Aikik. 

R 



282 • MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 




WHERE THAMES ALONG THE DAISY'D MEADS. 

David Mallet, bom 1700, died 1765. 

Where Thames along the daisy'd meads, 
His wave in lucid mazes leads, 
Silent, slow, serenely flowing, 
Wealth on either side bestowing, . 
There in a safe though small retreat. 
Content and love have fixed their seat ; 
Love, that counts his duty pleasure, 
Content, that knows and hugs his treasure. 

From art, from Jealousy secure, 

As faith unblamed, as friendship pure, 

Vain opinion nobly scorning. 

Virtue aiding, life adorning, 

Fair Thames along thy flowery side, 

May thou whom Truth and Reason guide 

All their tender hours improving. 

Live like us, beloved and loving 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 283 

THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER. 

From Bickeestaff's " Love in a Village." 1762. 

There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee, 

He danced and sang from morn till nighty no lark so blithe as he, 

And this the burden of his song for ever used to be, 

*' I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me." 

I live by my mill, God bless her ! she 's kindred, child, and wife, 
I would not change my station for any other in life : 
No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me, 
I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me. 

When spring begins his merry career, oh ! how his heart grows gay, 
No summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay ; 
No foresight mars the miller's joy, who 's wont to sing and say, 
*•' Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day." 

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing, 
The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing ; 
This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring. 
Let heart and voice, and all agree, to say, "Long live the king." 

The last two stanzas of tliis popular song appear to be by different hands, and to have 
been successively added at different times. The original idea is evidently concluded with 
the second stanza. 



THE ORIGIN OF THE PATTEN. 

From the " Convivial Songster." 1782. 

Sweet ditties would my Patty sing : 
" Old Chevy-chace," " God save the King 
" Fair Rosamond," and " Sawney Scott," 
" Li-li-bu-le-ro," and what not. 

All these would sing my blue-ey'd Patty, 
As with her pail she trudged along : 
While still the burden of her song, 

^ly hammer beat to blue-ey'd Patty. 
R 2 



284 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

But nipping frosts, and chilling rain, 
Too soon, alas ! choked every strain ; 
Too soon, alas ! the miry way 
Her wet-shod feet did sore dismay, 

And hoarse was heard my blue-ey'd Patty ; 
While I for very mad did cry. 
Ah ! could I but again, said I, 

Hear the sweet voice of blue-ey'd Patty ! 

Love taught me how ; I work'd, I sang ; 
My anvil glow'd, my hammer rang. 
Till I had form'd from out the fire, 
To bear her feet above the mire, 

An engine for my blue-ey'd Patty. 
Again was heard each tuneful close. 
My fair one in the patten rose. 

Which takes its name from blue-ey'd Patty. 



THE UNCOMMON OLD MAN. 

From the " Convivial Songster," 1782. 

There was an old man, and though 'tis not common, 
Yet, if he said true, he was born of a woman ; 
And though 'tis incredible, yet I 've been told 
He was once a mere infant, but age made him old. 

Whene'er he was hungry, he long'd for some meat, 
And if he could get it, 'twas said he would eat ; 
When thirsty, he'd drink, if you gave him a pot, 
And his liquor most commonly ran down his throat. 

He seldom or ever could see without light. 
And yet I 've been told he could hear in the night ; 
He has oft been awake in the day-time, 'tis said, 
And has fallen fast asleep as he lay in his bed. 

'Tis reported his tongue always moved when he talk'd, 
And he stirr'd both his arms and his legs when he walk'd 
And his gait was so odd, had you seen him, you'd burst, 
For one leg or t'other would always be first. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 285 

His face was the saddest that ever was seen, 
For if 'twere not wash'd it was seldom quite clean ; 
He showed most his teeth when he happen'd to grin. 
And his mouth stood across 'twixt his nose and his chin. 

At last he fell sick, as old chronicles tell, 
And then, as folks said, he was not very well ; 
But, what is more strange, in so weak a condition, 
As he could not give fees, he could get no physician. 

What pity he died ! yet 'tis said that his death 
Was occasion'd at last by the want of his breath ; 
But peace to his bones, which in ashes now moulder. 
Had he lived a day longer he'd been a day older. 



DULCE DOMUM, 

Sing a sweet, melodious measure, 
Waft enchanting lays around ; 

Home's a theme replete with pleasure !- 
Home ! a grateful theme, resound ! 

Home, sweet home ! an ample treasure 
Home ! with ev'ry blessing crown'd ! 

Home ! perpetual source of pleasure ! 
Home ! a noble strain, resound ! 

Lo ! the joyful hour advances ; 

Happy season of delight ! 
Festal songs, and festal dances, 

All our tedious toil requite. 

Leave, my wearied muse, thy learning. 
Leave thy task, so hard to bear ; 

Leave thy labour, ease returning, 
Leave my bosom, my care ! 

See the year, the meadow smiling J 
Let us then a smile display : 

Rural sports our pain beguiling, 
Rural pastimes call away. 



^86 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Now the swallow seeks her dwelling, 

And no longer loves to roam ; 
The example thus impelling, 

Let us seek our native home ! 

Let both men and steeds assemble, 

Panting for the wide champaign ; 
Let the ground beneath us tremble, 

While we scour along the plain. 

Oh, what raptures ! oh, what blisses ! 

When we gain the lovely gate ! 
Mothers' arms, and mothers' kisses, 

There our blest arrival wait. 

Greet our household gods with singing, 

Lend, Lucifer, thy ray ; 
Why should light, so slowly springing, 

All our promised joys delay ? 

Founded upon the celebrated song of the Winchester School boys' " Dulce Domum." 
It fir^t appeared in the " Gentleman's Magazine " for March, 1796, under the signature 
ofJ. R. ■ 



GLUGGITY GLUG. 

From the "Myrtle and the Vine." 

A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store, 

And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; 
He mounted his horse, in the night at the door 

And sat with his face to the crupper : 
Some rogue, quoth the friar, quite dead to remorse. 

Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, 
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse. 

While I was engaged at the bottle. 

Which went gluggity, gluggity, glug, glug, glug. 

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 
'Twas the friar's road home, straight, and level ; 

But, when spurr'd, a horse follows his nose, not his tail. 
So he scamper'd due north, like a devil : 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 287 

This new mode of docking, the friar then said, 

I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill ; 
And 'tis cheap — for he never can eat off his head, 

While I am engaged at the hottle, 

Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug. 




The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got, 

He was rather for drinking than grazing ; 
Quoth the friar, 'tis strange headless horses should trot, 

But to drink with their tails is amazing ! 
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, 

In the pond fell this son of a pottle ; 
Quoth he, the head 's found, for I 'm under his nose — 

I wish I were over a bottle. 

Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug. 



VARIETY. 

From the " Myrtle and the Vine." 
Ask you who is singing here. 
Who so blithe can thus appear ? 
I'm the child of joy and glee. 
And my name's Variety. 



288 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

Ne'er have I a clouded face, 
Swift I change from place to place, 
Ever wand'ring, ever free, 
And my name's Variety. 

Like a bird that skims the air, 
Here and there, and every where, 
Sip my pleasures like a bee, 
Nothing's like Variety. 

Love's sweet passion warms my breast, 
Roving love but breaks the rest, 
One good heart's enough for me, 
Tho' my name's Variety. 

Crowded scenes and lovely grove, 
All by turns I can approve ; 
Follow, follow, follow me. 
Friend of life, Variety. 



THE TURNING OF THE WHEEL. 

From " The Convivial Songster," 

The wheel of life is turning quickly round, 
And nothing in this world, of certainty is found. 
The midwife vi^heels us in, and death wheels us out. 
Good lack ! good lack ! how things are wheeled about. 

Some few aloft on fortune's wheel do go. 
And as they mount up high, the others tumble low. 
For this we all agree that fate at first did will, 
That this great wheel should never once stand still. 

The courtier turns to gain his private end. 
Till he's so giddy grown, he quite forgets his friend ; 
Prosperity oft times deceives the proud and vain. 
And wheels so fast, it turns them out again. 

Some turn to this, and that, and every way, 

And cheat, and scrape, for what can't purchase one poor day. 

But this is far below the generous hearted man 

Who lives and makes the most of life he can. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 



And thus we're wheeled about in life's short farce, 
Till we at last are wheel'd off, in a rumbling hearse ; 
The midwife wheels us in, and death wheels us out, 
Good lack ! good lack ! how things are wheel'd about ! 



THE WOODPECKER. 

I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near ; 

And I said, if there 's peace to be found in the world 
A heart that is humble might hope for it here. 

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound. 

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. 

And here in this lone little wood, I exclaimed, 
With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye ; 

Who would blush when 1 praised her, and weep if I blamed, 
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! 

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound. 

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow-beech-tree. 

By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips. 
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline ! 

And, to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, . 
Which ne'er had been sighed on by any but mine. 

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound, 

Bu«t the woodpecker tapping the holJow beech-tree. 



IN THE SEASON OF THE YEAR. 
When I was bound apprentice, 

In famous Lincolnshire, 
Full well I served my master. 

For more than seven year j 
Till I took up to poaching. 

As you shall quickly hear. 
Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, 

In the season of the year. 

As me and my comrade 

Were setting of a snare, 
'Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, 

For him we did not care ; 



290 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, 

And jump o'er anywhere, — 
For its my delight on a shiny night. 

In the season of the year. 

As me and my comrade, 

Were setting four or five, 
And taking of him up again, 

We caught the hare alive ; 
We took the hare alive, my boys, 

And thro' the woods did steer, — 
Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, 

In the season of the year. 

We threw him o'er our shoulders, 

And then we trudged home, 
We took him to a neighbour's house. 

And sold him for a crown ; 
We sold him for a crown, my boys. 

But I did not tell you where, — 
Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, 

In the season of ,the year. 

Success to every gentleman 

That lives in Lincolnshire, 
Success to every poacher. 

That wants to sell a hare. 
Bad luck to every gamekeeper 

That will not sell his deer, — 
For it's my delight on a shiny night, 

In the season of the year. 

The date and origin of this song are unknown. Though it has not the slightest 
pretensions to literary merit, its subject, and the melody have long made it popular among 
the English peasantry " It has been sung," says Mr. Chappell, " by several^ hundred 
voices together, at the harvest homes of George the Fourth." 



I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY. 

J. O'Keefe. From the Opera of " Merry Sherwood." 

I AM a Friar of orders grey, 
And down in the valleys I take my way, 
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip. 
Good store of venison fills my scrip ; 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. .291 

My long bead-roll I merrily chant, 
Where'er I walk no money I want ; 
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 
Who leads a good life is sure to live well. 

What baron or squire, 

Or knight of the shire, 

Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 

After supper of heaven I dream, 

But that is a pullet and clouted cream ; 

Myself, by denial, I mortify — 

With a dainty bit of a warden pie ; 

I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin ; 

With old sack wine I'm lined within : 

A chirping cup is my matin song. 

And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. 

What baron or squire. 

Or knight of the shire. 

Lives half so well as a holy friar 1 



ALL'S WELL. 

Thomas Dibdik, Song in the " British Fleet," an Opera by S. J. Arnold. 

Deserted by the waning moon. 

When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon. 

On tower, or fort, or tented ground 

The sentry walks his lonely round ; 

And should a footstep haply stray 

Where caution marks the guarded way. 

Who goes there ? Stranger, quickly tell ; 

A friend — the word. Good night ; all 's well. 

Or sailing on the midnight deep. 
When weary messmates soundly sleep, 
The careful watch patrols the deck. 
To guard the ship from foes or wreck ; 
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer. 
Some friendly voice salutes his ear — 
What cheer ? brother, quickly tell ; 
Above — below. Goodnight; all's well. 



*92 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN. 

Joanna Baillie, born 1762, died 1851. 

The chough and crow to roost are gone, 

The owl sits on the tree, 
The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, 

Like infant charity. 
The wildfire dances on the fen, 

The red star sheds its ray, 
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, 

It is our op'ning day. 

Both child and nurse are fast asleep. 

And closed is every flower, 
And waking tapers faintly peep 

High from my lady's bower ; 
Bewilder'd hinds, with shorten'd ken, 

Shrink on their murky way, 
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men. 

It is our op'ning day. 

Nor board nor garner own we now. 

Nor roof, nor latched door, 
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow, 

To bless a good man's store ; 
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den. 

And night is grown our day, 
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men. 

And use it as you may. 



A LAMENT. 

Peecy ByssHE Shelley. 

O WORLD ! life ! time ! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood befon 
When will return the glory of your prime 1 

No more — Oh, never more ! 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 293 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight. 

No more — Oh, never more ! 



MY NATIVE LAND, GOOD NIGHT. 

LoED Btbon-. 
Adieu ! adieu ! — my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue, 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar. 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea, 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 

My native land, good night ! 

With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to — 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves, 

And when ye fail my sight. 
Welcome ye deserts and ye caves, 

My native land, good night ! 

Abridged from " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 

J. H. Pay^e, in the opera of " Clari, the Maid of Milan." 
'IVIiD pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 
Be it ever so humble there 's no place like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here, 
Which seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home ! home, sweet home ! 

There 's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain ! 
Oh ! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again ! 
The birds singing gaily that came at my call : — 
Give me sweet peace of mind, oh ! dearer than all ! 
Home ! home, &c. 



294 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 



THE BUCKET. 



How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ; 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew : 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father — the dairy-house nigh it — 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ! 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure. 

For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing. 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. 



ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL. 

Thomas Haynes Batlet. 

Shades of ev'ning close not o'er us. 

Leave our lonely bark awhile ; 
Morn, alas ! will not restore us 

Yonder dim and distant isle. 
Still my fancy can discover 

Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; 
Darker shadows round us hover, — 

Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well ! 

'Tis the hour when happy faces 

Smile around the taper's light ; 
Who will fill our vacant places ? 

Who will sing our songs to-night ? 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 295 

Through the mist that floats above us 

Faintly sounds the vesper bell, 
Like a voice from those who love us, 

Breathing fondly. Fare thee well ! 

When the waves are round me breaking, 

As I pace the deck alone, 
And my eye in vain is seeking 

Some green leaf to rest upon. 
When on that dear land I ponder. 

Where my old companions dwell. 
Absence makes the heart grow fonder — 

Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well ! 



THE SONG OF A SHIRT. 

Thomas Hood, died 18i6. 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids hea\y and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the " Song of a Shirt ! " 

''Work! work! work! 
While the cock is crowing aloof ! 

And work — work — work. 
Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
It 's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save. 

If this is Christian work ! 

'•' Work — work — work 
Till the brain begins to swim ; 

Work — work — work 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 



296 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

/ 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
And sew them on in a dream ! 



" Oh ! Men, with Sisters dear ! 

Oh ! Men ! with Mothers and Wives ! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 

"But why do I talk of Death ? 

That Phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 

It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fasts I keep, 
Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear. 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

My labour never flags ; 
And what are its wages 1 A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work — work— work ! 
From weary chime to chime, 

Work — work — work — 
As prisoners work for crime ! 

Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, 
As well as the weary hand. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 297 

" Work — work— work, 
In the dull December light, 

And work — work — work. 
When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the spring. 



'' Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet- 

With the sky above my head, 
And the grass beneath my feet. 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 



'' Oh but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 

But only time for Grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread." 



With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A Woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch. 
Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! 

•She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 



298 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE. 

Samuel Rooers. 

Dear is my little native vale. 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there, 

Close by my cot she tells her tale, 
To every passing villager. 

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree. 

And shells his nut at liberty, 

' In orange-groves and myrtle bowers, 

That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
I charm the fairy-footed hours, 

With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 
Or crowns of living laurel weave. 
For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day. 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 

The canzonet and roundelay, 

Sung in the silent green- wood shade ; 

These simple joys, shall never fail, 

Shall bind me to my native vale. 



MELANCHOLY. 

Samuel Rogers. 

Go ! you may call it madness, folly ; 

You shall not chase my gloom away. 
There 's such a charm in melancholy, 

I would not, if I could, be gay. 

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
That fills my bosom when I sigh, 

You would not rob me of a treasure 
Monarchs are too poor to buy. 



MISCELLANEOdS SONGS. 209 



WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN? 



When shall we three meet again ? 
When shall we three meet again I 
Oft shall glo\\'ing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign 
Ere we three shall meet again. 
Though in distant lands we sigh, 
Parch'd beneath a hostile sky ; 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls : 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 
When the dreams of life are fled, 
When its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold oblivion's shade, 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
Where immortal spirits reign, 
There shall we three meet again. 



THE TAMBOURINE SONG. 

I LOVE my little native isle. 

Mine emerald in a golden deep ; 
My garden where the roses smile. 

My vineyard where the tendrils creep. 
How sweetly glide the summer hours. 

When t\s^light shows her silver sheen ; 
And youths and maids from all the bowers 

Come forth to play the Tambourine. 

At morn the fisher spreads his sail 

Upon our calm encircling sea ; 
The farmer labours in the vale, 

Or tends his vine and orange tree. 
But soon as lingering sunset throws 

O'er woods and fields a deeper green, 
And all the west in crimson glows, 

They gather to the Tambourine, 
s 2 



300 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

We love onr merry native song, 
' Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks. 

Our moonlight walks the beach along, 

For interchange of words and looks. 
When toil is done, and day is spent, 

Sweet is the dance with song between j 
The jest for harmless pleasure meant, 

And tinkle of the Tambourine. 

My native isle, my land of peace — 

My father's home, my mother's grave — 
May evermore thy joys increase. 

And plenty o'er thy corn-fields wave I 
May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf. 

Nor war pollute thy valleys green ; 
Nor fail the dance upon thy turf, 

Nor music of the Tajnbourine. 



I'VE BEEN ROAMING. 

George Soaxe. 
I 'vE been roaming, I 've been roaming. 

Where the meadow dew is sweet, 
And I 'm coming, and I 'm coming. 
With its pearls upon my feet. 

I 've been roaming, &€. 

I 've been roaming, I 've been roaming, 

O'er the rose and lily fair. 
And I 'm coming, and I ' m coming. 

With their blossoms in my hair. 

I 've been roaming, &c> 

I 've been roaming, I 've been roaming, 
Where the honey-suckle creeps. 

And I 'm coming, and I 'm coming. 
With its kisses on my lips. 

I 've been roaming, &c. 

I've been roaming, I 've been roaming, 

Over hill and over plain. 
And I 'm coming, and I 'm coming, 

To my bower back again. 

I 've been roaming, &c. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 301 



THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 



H. F. Chohley- 

A Song to the Oak, the brave old Oak, ^ 

Who hath ruled in the green wood long, 
Here 's health and renown to his broad green crown, 

And his fifty arms so strong. 
There 's fear in his frov/n, when the sun goes down« 

And the fire in the west fades out, 
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight. 

When the storm through his branches shout. 

Then here 's to the Oak, the brave old Oak, 

Who stands in his pride alone, 
And still flourish he a hale green tree, 

When a hundred years are gone. 

In the days of old when the spring with cold, 

Had brightened his branches grey, 
Through the grass at his feet, crept maidens^sweet. 

To gather the dew of May. 
And on that day to the rebeck gay 

They frolickM with lovesome swains ; 
They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, 

But the tree it still remains. 

Then here 's, &c. 



He saw the rare times, when the Christmas chimes 

Was a merry sound to hear, 
When the squire's wide hall, and the cottage small 

Were filled with good English cheer. 
Now gold hath the sway we all obey, 

And a ruthless king is he. 
But he never shall send our ancient friend, 

To be tossed on the stormy sea. 

Then here 's, &c. 



302 MISCELLANEOUS SONQS. 



THE GRASP OF FRIENDSHIP'S HAND. 

Give me the grasp that is warm, kind, and ready ; 
Give me the grasp that is calm, true, and steady ; 
Give me the hand that will never deceive me — 
Give me its grasp, that I still may believe thee* 
Soft is the palm of the delicate woman ; 
Hard is the hand of the rough, sturdy yeoman ; 
Soft palm or hard palm, it matters not — never : 
Give me the hand that is friendly for ever ! 

Give me the hand that is true as a brother ; 
Give me the hand that has harm'd not another ; 
Give me the hand that has never foreswore it ; 
Give me its grasp, that I still may adore it. 
Lovely the palm of the fair blue-eyed maiden ; 
Horny the hand of the workman o'erladen ; 
Lovely or ugly, it matters not — never : 
Give me the hand that is friendly for ever t 

Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty. 
Free as the breeze, and unshackled by party : 
Let Friendship give me the grasps that become her. 
Close as the twine of the vines in the summer. 
Give me the hand that is true as a brother ; 
Give me the hand that has wrong'd not another ; 
Soft palm or hard palm, it matters not — never : 
Give me the hand that is friendly for ever ! 



TUBAL CAIN. 

Chables Mac KAY. 

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might, 
In the days when Earth was young ; 

By the fierce red light of his furnace brightj 
The strokes of his hammer rung ; 

And he lifted high his brawny hand, 
On the iron glowing clear. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. SOS 

Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, 

As he fashion'd the sword and spear. 
And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! 

Hurrah for the spear and sword ! 
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, 

For he shall be King and Lord ! " 



To Tubal Cain came many a one, 

As he wrought by his roaring fire. 
And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade, 

As the crown of his desire ; 
And he made them weapons sharp and strong, 

Till they shouted loud for glee, 
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold. 

And spoils of the forest free. 
And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 

Who hath given us strength anew ! 
Hurrah for the smith ! hurrah for the fire ! 

And hurrah for the metal true ! " 



But a sudden change came o'er his heart 

Ere the setting of the sun ; 
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain 

For the evil he had done ! 
He saw that men, with rage and hate. 

Made war upon their kind, 
That the land was red with blood they shed, 

In their lust for carnage blind. 
And he said, " Alas ! that ever I made. 

Or that skill of mine should plan, 
The spear and the sword for men whose joy 

Is to slay their fellow-man !" 

And for many a day old Tubal Cain 

Sat brooding o'er his woe ; 
And his hand forebore to smite the ore. 

And his furnace smoulder'd low; 
And he rose at last with a cheerful face. 

And a bright courageous eye, 



,304 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

And bared his strong right arm for work, 
While the quick flames mounted high : 

And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! " 
And the red sparks lit the air — 
" Not alone for the blade, was the bright steel made ;" 
And he fashion 'd the first ploughshare. 

And men, taught wisdom from the past, 

In friendship joined their hands. 
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, 

And plough'd the willing lands ; 
And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 

Our stanch good friend is he ; 
And for the ploughshare and the plough, 

To him our praise shall be. 
But while Oppression lifts its head. 

Or a tyrant would be lord. 
Though we may thank him for the plough. 

We '11 not forget the sword." 



THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 

Geoege Darley. 

Here 's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds strewn 
To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May ! 

Here 's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon. 
And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay ! 

Here 's a garland of red-maiden-roses for you, 
Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone ! 

Here 's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew, 
To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own ! 

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale. 

That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth bestow ; 
Here's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes to hide. 
Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon snow. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 305 

Here 's a myrtle enwreath'd with a jessamine band, 
To express the fond twining of beauty and youth ; 

Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand, 
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth ! 

Then around you we '11 dance, and around you we '11 sing, 
To soft pipe and sweet tabor we '11 foot it away ! 

And the hills, and the dales, and the forests shall ring, 
While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the May. 



HONEST PRIDE. 

Listen, ye tillers of the soil 

That gave our fathers birth, 
And I will tell you what I deem 

A poor man's pride on earth ; 
I'm proud to toil with willing hands. 

And earn my daily bread, 
Yet prouder still, no man can say. 

By ill-got gold I'm fed. 

I'm proud to see my frugal wife 

Sit smiling by my side, 
Prouder to think 'twas not for gold 

That she became my bride. 
I'm proud to help a falling friend, 

And do what good I can. 
Prouder to know the world must say 

That I'm an honest man. 

I'm proud to see my children smile, 

As they climb their mother's knee. 
Prouder to think when I'm no more, 

They cannot blush for me. 
Humble when night is gliding on. 

To read the holy prayer. 
And prove that there's a heavenly balm 

For every worldly care. 



306 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

I'm proud that all my actions. 

And not my words alone, 
Will help to guide my children 

To an everlasting throne. 
And proud I am that all the world 

Who see the course I ran, 
Must say, while bending o'er my grave, 

*' Here lies an honest man." 



THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 

Eliza Cook. 

I LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 

I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 

I 've bedew'd it with tears, I 've embalm'd it with sighs 

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 

Would you know the spell 1 — a mother sat there ! 

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I linger'd near 
The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; 
And gentle words that mother would give 
To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
She told me that shame would never betide 
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat, and watch'd her many a day. 

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey ; 

And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, 

And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. 

Years roU'd on, but the last one sped — 

My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled ! 

I learnt how much the heart can bear. 

When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 301^ 

'Tis past, tis past ! but I gaze on it now, 
With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow : 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek j 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 



THE IVY GREEN. 

Charles Dickens. 

Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green. 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd. 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mould 'ring dust that years have made, 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings. 

And a stanch old heart has he ! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, 

To his friend the huge oak tree ! 
And slily he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, 

And nations scatter'd been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 



308 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

The brave old plant in its lonely days, 

Shall fatten upon the past : 
For the stateliest building man can raise, 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 



THE GOOD TIME COMING. 

Chables Mack ay. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
We may not live to see the day, 
But earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 
Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 

But thought 's a weapon stronger ; 
We '11 win our battle by its aid ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
The pen shall supersede the sword. 
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord. 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 

And be acknowledg'd stronger ; 
The proper impulse has been given ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
War in all men's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity, 

In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then, 

To prove which is the stronger ; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 

Wait a little longer. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 309 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Hateful rivalries of creed 
Shall not make their martyrs bleed 

In the good time coming. 
Religion shall be shorn of pride. 

And flourish all the stronger ; 
And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 

VFait a little longer. 



There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
And a poor man's family 
Shall not be his misery 

In the good time coming. 
Every child shall be a help, 

To make his right arm stronger ; 
The happier he, the more he has ; — 

Wait a little longer. 



There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Little children shall not toil. 
Under, or above, the soil. 

In the good time coming ; 
But shall play in healthful fields 

Till limbs and mind grow stronger 
And every one shall read and write ;- 

Wait a little longer. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
The people shall be temperate. 
And shall love instead of hate, 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse. 

And make all virtue stronger^ 
The reformation has begun ; — 

Wait a little longer. 



310 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 

There 's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Let us aid it all we can, 
Every woman, every man, 

The good time coming. 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger ; 
'Twill be strong enough one day ;— 

Wait a little longer. 

These verses— for it is doubtful whether they can strictly be called a song — appeared 
originally in the second number of the " Daily News," as one of the series entitled 
" Voices from the Crowd." Being afterwards set to music, and the chorus or burden of 
the song as sung by Mr. Russell, being repeated by crowds of people at his entertainments, 
it enjoyed for two or three years a very great degree of popularity. 



THE BUD IS ON THE BOUGH. 

Francis Bennoch, 
' The bud is on the bough, 

And the blossom on the tree ; " 
But the bud and the blossom 
Bring no joyousness to me. 
Wall'd up within the city's gloom, 

No pleasure can I know. 

But like a caged linnet sing 

To chase away my woe ! 

The bud will grow a blossom. 

The blossom will grow pale, 
And as they die the fruit will spring. 

But fall when o'er the vale 
Stern winter marches with his train 

In every wind that blows, 
And I, unripe, with ripest fruit. 

May in the dust repose. 

But Spring upon the seed will breathe, 

The seed become a tree. 
And on the tree so beautiful 

Shall bud and blossom be ; 
And shall I know a second Spring ? 

Yes ! brighter far than they ; 
When age puts on the blush of youth, 

And youth shall not decay ! 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 311 

FAIR FLOWER ! FAIR FLOWER ! 

W. T. MONCRIEFF. 

Fair flower ! fair flower ! 
Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, 
Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing, 

With all heaven's smiles upon thee, 

The blight has fallen on thee. 
Every hope of life o'erthrowing, 

Fair flower ! fair flower ! 

Dear flower ! dear flower ! 
Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee, 
No fond breath can e'er restore thee ; 

Vainly our tears are falling, 

Thou 'rt past the dew's recalling ; 
We shall live but to deplore thee. 

Dear flower ! dear flower ! 

Poor flower ! poor flower ! 
No aid now to health can win thee ; 
The fatal canker is within thee, 

Turning thy young heart's gladness 

To mourning and to madness ! 
Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee. 

Poor flower ! poor flower ! 

Wan flower ! wan flower ! 
Oh ! how sad to see thee lying, 
Meekly — calmly — thus, though dying ; 

Sweeter, in thy decaying. 

Than all behind thee staying ! 
But vain, alas ! is now our sighing, 

Lost flower ! lost flower I 



THE BUGLE SONG. 

Alfred Tennyson. From the " Princess," 
The splendour falls on castle waUs, 

And snowy summits old in story, 
The long light shakes across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



312 



MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 



Oh hark! oh hear! how thm and cl^ar, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going; 
' Oh sweet and far from diff and scar. 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying, 



Blow bugle, answer echoes, 



dying, dying, dying. 



Oh love, they die in yon rich sky ! 

They faint on hill, on field, on river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes answer, dying, dying, dying. 




^^y£r^' fi ?^i^-^l 



VIZETELLY AWD CO., PRINTEKS, TLEET I^THEET, LOS DOW. 



To be PuTjlislied March 31st, 1851, and ^diltinuei Monthly. 




JRea^oitiGf for PuBIi^ljins 



NMIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY 

EACH TO CONTAIN THREE HUNDEED AND TWENTY PAGES, 
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THE Age in M^hicli we live is essentially ol a ;,raci/mZ character and the 
predominant prmciple influencing all classes is a marked desire for cheapness 
Cheapness, however, is too often found without excellence, and hence this proposition 
to supply a deficiency at present existing in the popular literature of this country. 

For some time past the projectors of the present undertaking have felt inter- 
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1. A carefully Revised Text. 4, A new and legible Type. 

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3. Engravings really illustrating the Text. 6. Strong neat Binding. 

A portion of the Works intended to be published under the title of the 

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of such writers as present a tme vitality in their pages including many oi 



TO THE READING PUBLIC. 

those great masterpieces of the human mind, which having survived heyond the 
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The series will also comprise original works, especially written by competent 
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I treasury of knowledge and entertainment in the volumes of the "National 
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808 



[Specimen Fage.l 
RESEARCHES IN NINEVEH. 




Far away — a thousand miles — from 
the highways of modern commerce, and 
the tracks of ordinary travel lay a sand- 
'""''''-' enshrouded city deeply buried in a half- 

desert Turkish Province, with no certrain trace of its place of 
sepulchre. Vague tradition said that it was hidden somewhere near 
the river Tigris ; but for full two thousand years its known existence in 
the world was as a mere name ; a word. That name suggested the idea 
of an ancient capital of fabulous splendour and magnitude ; a congrega- 
tion of palaces and other dwellings encompassed by walls and ramparts, 
vast but scarcely real. 

Old writers — men who lived a thousand years before our times, yet a 
thousand years after many of the things they tell about — spoke of the 
buried city as one in their days known only by tradition, and as one whose 
fate had long been sealed — blotted out of the world it had once helped 




A.B8T1KIAN LION HrNT. 



1763] 



iSpecimen Page.'\ 



BOSWELL S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 



247 



advanced towards us, — lie announced bis awful approach to me, somewhat 
in the manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses 
Hamlet on the appearance of his father's ghost, '* Look my Lord, it comes." 
I found that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's figure, from the 
portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had pub- 
lished his Dictionary, in the attitude of sitting in his easy chair in deep 
meditation ; which was the first pictm-e his friend did for him, which Sir 
Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from wliich an engraving has 
been made for this work. Air. Davies mentioned my name, and respect- 



■ ' " " '' - T^fffes^^j 




fully introduced me to him. I was much agitated ; and recollecting his 
prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said to 
Davies, "Don't tell where I come from." — "From Scotland," cried 
Davies roguishly. " Mr. Johnson (said I), I do indeed come from Scot- 
land, but I cannot help it." I am willing to flatter myself that I meant 
this as hght pleasantry to soothe and conciliate him, and not as a 
humiliating abasement at the expense of my country. But however that 
might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky ; for with that quickness of 
wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the expression " come 
from Scotland," which I used in the sense of being of that country ; and, 
as if I had said that I had come away from it, or left it, retorted " That, 
Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help." 



84 



[^Specimen Page."] 
THE BOOK OF ENGLISH SONGS. 




AKEN lords and ladies gay, 
On the mountain dawns tlie day ; 
All the jolly chase is here, 
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear ; 
Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ; 
Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 
" Waken lords and ladies gay." 

Waken lords and ladies gay. 

The mist has left the mountain gre}'", 

Springlets in the dawn are streaming, 

Diamonds in the brake are gleaming, 

And foresters have busy been, 

To trace the Buck in thicket green; 

Now we come to chaunt our lay, 

" Waken lords and ladies gay." 



OPINIONS OF MACAULAY AND CARLYLE ON 

"BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON." 



Tliat the uninitiated may form some idea of the entertaining character ot 
Boswell's Life of Johnson, critical opinions of the work from the pens of 
two of our oTeatest living writers, viz., Macaulay and Carljle, are subjoined : — 
Mr. ]\Iaca.ulav thus expresses himself — 

" The Life of Johnson is assuredly a great, a verv- great work. Homer is not more 
decidedly the first of dramatists, Demosthenes is not more decidedly the first cf orators, 
than Boswell is the first of biogi-aphers. He has no second. He has distanced all his 
competitors so decidedly that it is not worth while to place them. Eclipse is first, and the 
rest nowhere. 

" We are not sure that there is in the whole history of the human intellect so strange a 
phenomenon as this book. Many of the greatest men that ever lived have written 
biography. Boswell was one of the smallest men that ever lived, and he has beaten them 
all. *■ * * He was a slave, proud of his servitude, a Paul Pry, convinced that his own 
curiosity and garrulity were virtues, an unsafe companion who never scrupled to repay the 
most liberal hospitality by the basest violation of confidence, a man without delicacy, with- 
out shame, without sense enough to know when he was hurling the feelings of others or 
when he was exposinsi himself to derision ; and because he was all this, he has in an 
important department of literature, immeasurably surpassed such wTiters as Tacitus, 
Clarendon, Alfieri, and his own idol Johnson. * * * 

"Johnson grown old, Johnson in the fulness of his fame and in the enjoyment of a com- 
petent fortune, is better known to us than any other man in history. Every thing about 
him, his coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. Vitus's dance, his rolling 
walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which too clearly marked his approbation of his 
dinner, his insatiable appetite for fish-sauce and veal-pie with plums, his inextinguishable 
thirst for tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, his mysterious practice for 
treasuring up scraps of orange-peel, his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his 
contortions, his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and ready 
eloquence, his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous rage, his 
queer inmates, old Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge, and the negro 
Frank, all are familiar to us as the objects by which we have been surrounded from 
childhood." 

Spea;Mng of Bo SWELL'S Life of Johnson Mr. Carljle says— 

" That loose-flowing, careless-looking work of his, is as a picture by one of Nature's own 
Artists; the best possible resemblance of a Reality ; like the very image thereof in a clear 
mirrei-. Which indeed it was: let but the mirror be clear, this is the great point; the 
picture must and will be genuine How the babbling Bozzy, inspired only by love, and 
the recognition and vision which love can lend, epitomises nightly the words of Wisdom, 
the deeds and aspects of Wisdom, and so by little and little, unconsciously works together 
for us a whole Johnsoniad ; a more free, perfect, sunlit, and spirit speaking likeness, tlian 
for many centm-ies had been drawn by man of man ! Scarcely since the days of Homer 
has the feat been equalled ; indeed in many senses, this also is a kind of Heroic Poem. 
The fit Odyssey of our unheroic age was to be written, not sung; of a Thinker, not of a 
Fighter; and (for want of a Homer) by the first open soul that might offer,— looked such 
even through the organs of a Boswell. * * * 

" As for the Book itself, questionless the universal favour entertained for it is well 
merited. In worth as a Book we have rated it bej'ond any other product of the eighteenth 
century. * * * Which of us but remembers, as one of the sunny spots in his existence, 
the day when he opened these airy volumes, fascinating him by a true natural magic. It 
was as if the curtains of the Past were drawn aside, and wc looked mystcMously into a 
kindred Country, where dwelt our Fathers ; inexpressibly dear to us, but which had seemed 
for ever hidden from our eyes.' 



luhJBtfe mlnkl tn 3ltotrate 

THE 

FIRST VOLUME OF "BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON." 



Frontispiece — Dr. Johnson at Lord Chester- 
field's. 
Title — Portrait of Dr. Johnson, after 

Reynolds. 
Portrait and Autograph of James Boswell, 

Esq. 
Portrait of Edmund Malone. 
Birth-place of Dr Johnson, at Lichfield. 
Lichfield Grammar School, 1725. 
PiMtrait of Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
Initial Letter— St. Mary's, Lichfield. 
Portrait of Michael Johnson. 
Parlour at Johnson's Birth-place. 
Dr. Sacheverel Preachiug. 
Portrait of Mr. Hector. 
Cornelius Ford, from Hop;arth's "Modern 

Midnight Conversation." 
Stourbridge School, Worcestershire. 
The Hall of Pembroke College, Oxford. 
Christ Church Meadow. 
Portrait of Mr. Jorden. 
Dr. Johnson's Room in Pembroke College. 
General View of Lichfield. 
Monument to Gilbert Walmesley in Lich- 
field Cathedral. 
Dr. Johnson's Residence at Birmingham. 
Portrait of Edward Cave, projector of the 

" Gentleman's Magazine." 
Portrait of Mrs. Johnson. 
View of Ediall House, Dr. Johnson's 

Academy, near Lichfield. 
Portrait of Mr. Colson. 
Dr. Johnson's Lodging in Exeter Street, 

Strand. 
View in Greenwich Park, 1737. 
Dr. Johnson's Lodging, next to the Golden 

Hart, Church street, Greenwich. 
Fac simile of pari of the original MSS. of 

" IllENK." 

Saint Jo'nn's Gale, Clerkenwell, 1737. 
Dr. Joiuison's Lodging in Castle Street. 
Portraits of Dod.iey the Publisher, and 

Richardson the Novelist. 
Portrait of W. Ho...:arth. 
Portrait of Dr. 13ijch.' 
Portrait of Richard Savage. 
Portrait of Lady Macclesfield. 
Portrait of Lord Lovat. 
Portrait of Lord Chesterfield. ^^ 



Dr Johnson's Residence in Gough Square. 
Interior of Drury Lane Theatre, 1749. 
Portraits of Garrick, Barry, Mrs. Cibber, 
. and Mrs. Pritchard, the principal Actors 

in the 'J'ragedy of " Ikene." 
The Green Room of Drury Lane Theatre. 
Portrait of Mrs. Ann Williams. 
Portrait of Mr. Francis Barber. 
Monument toElizabeth, wife of Dr. Johnson, 

at Bromley Church, Kent. 
Portrait of Bennet Langton. 
Portrait of Topham Beauclerk. 
Portrait of Dr. Joseph Warton. 
Portrait of Colley Cibber. 
Portrait of Rev. Thomas Warton. 
View of Ellsfield, near Oxford. 
Ruins of the Abbeys of Oseney and Rowley, 

near Oxford. 
Portrait of Collins the Poet. 
Portrait of Millar the Bookseller. 
Portrait of Dr. Burney. 
Portrait of Mr. Strachan. 

View of Blackfriar's Bridge. 

Portrait of Mr. Joseph Baretti. 

Portrait of Lord Bute. 

View of the Garrison at.Plymouth. 

Portrait of Thomas Sheridan. 

Portrait of Thomas Davis, the Aclor and 
Bookseller. 

Dr. Johnson's Chambers, Inner Temple 
Lane. 

The Mitre Tavern, Fleet Street. 

Interior View of the Mitre. 

Scene of the Cock Lane Ghost's exploits. 

Portrait of Oliver Goldsmith. 

The Temple Stairs. 

View of Greenwich Hospital, the Park, &c. 

View of the Pool and the Isle of Dogs. 

Fleet Street in 1763. 

Interior of Harwich Church. 

View of Langton Hall, Lincolnshire. 

The Turk's Head, Gerrard Street, Soho. 

Portrait of Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dromore. 

Portraits of Mr. and Mrs. ThraJe. 

Town residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale in 
Southwark. 

Country House of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale in 
Streatham. 



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